


counting the breaths until you

by jintimacy



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ambiguous Relationship, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Attempt at Humor, Established Relationship, Exes to Lovers, Getting Together, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, Hopeful Ending, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Angst, Mutual Pining, Post-Time Skip, Sort of? - Freeform, blink-and-you-miss-it kurodai, kuroo tetsuroo is a plot device, yamaguchi is an unofficial relationship counselor, yes kuroo is here to help tsukki Feel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jintimacy/pseuds/jintimacy
Summary: “What are you, my therapist?”“No,” Kageyama says. “I’m your sort-of-not-boyfriend.”A story about Tsukishima Kei and all the longing for everything he once held in his fist.
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 28
Kudos: 75
Collections: Haikyuu Writer Jukebox Round One - Mitski





	counting the breaths until you

Kei gets properly drunk for the very first time in his life three weeks into his first semester of university in an izakaya three streets down from campus so filled to the brim with people that it’s probably breaking seven different fire safety regulations, with a friendly kiss from Sato With The Pink Undercut from his 2 p.m. Psych 112 lecture lingering on his chin, the thick smoke of cigarettes clogging his nostrils, and Yamaguchi nestled comfortably in his side. Ten minutes later, in his quest to find a bathroom, he trips over some guy’s foot and gets yelled at, after which he gulps down a large glass filled with water that is actually not water but straight vodka and coughs so hard his eyes start to water.

“I’m not crying,” he tells Yamaguchi when he finally finds the table they’d stolen for the night after getting lost and walking around the perimeter twice. “I just chugged vodka.”

“Is that vodka?” Yamaguchi asks, which is absolutely not the right question. Kei had been expecting an _are you okay?_ or even a _how the fuck did chug vodka?_ (Yes, I don’t know, respectively.) Not an _is that vodka_ , of all things. 

But he answers Yamaguchi’s question with a solid _no_ , and then sniffs the cup, and says _no_ again, but more definitively this time. “It’s water, for sure.” 

His water gets replaced with beer at some point, but he doesn’t recall the switch happening at all, so for a solid few minutes he wonders if he’s the reincarnation of Jesus Christ, except instead of wielding the power of turning water to wine he’s been cursed with a downgraded version and can only turn water to cheap, shitty beer. 

He tells Yamaguchi this, which prompts an ugly bark of a laugh from him, and he tugs the beer out of Kei’s hands and replaces it with water. Kind of like a reverse Jesus Christ, he thinks. 

Yamaguchi pats him on the shoulder and says, “Pace yourself.”

Despite his best efforts, Kei’s alcohol tolerance is still unsurprisingly shit and whatever alcohol has already entered his system is starting to do strange things to his brain, and all of a sudden he’s wrestling his phone out of Yamaguchi’s iron grip with unreasonable anger pulsing through his head. “Give it back.”

“No,” Yamaguchi says, and slaps his arm. It stings a moment later. “I’m not letting you call him.”

 _Call who?_ Kei thinks. “Call who?”

And while on most days, Kei would merely curse himself and his irrational stupidity, or curse whatever predicament he’s landed himself in that would remind him of his very first heartbreak, or curse the nearest available outlet he can as to chuck his gritty, uncomfortable feelings right the fuck out of his skull, right now, with drunken couples all but getting busy in the middle of a crowded, disgusting apartment, with the aftertaste of gross beer and vodka coating the inside of his mouth, with his mind littered with stray thoughts of a familiar boy that took a piece of his heart with him to Tokyo, when Yamaguchi’s mouth opens to say the name _Kageyama_ in high-res slow motion, Kei realizes with an ice cold, earth shatteringly horrible jolt that his cheeks are wet.

“I’m leaving,” he declares, voice raspy with how much he suddenly hurts, entirely uncaring if Yamaguchi can even hear him over the imminent drunken fight two tables down. He snatches his phone back into his own hands. “I’ll text you when I’m back.”

* * *

  
  


**Unread Voicemail (2)**

**From Kageyama Tobio 👑 • 06:18**

“Uh, hey, I just saw your texts from a few hours ago. Are you okay? You seemed mad at me. And, I— I, um. Call me back. I’m a little worried. I hope you’re safe.”

**From Kageyama Tobio 👑 • 09:42**

“Yamaguchi told me you’re okay. Just call me back, please?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


They kiss for the first time on a sticky June afternoon, with Kageyama’s tentative hands pulling Kei in by his forearms. 

It’s awful in the way first kisses are, all desire and no finesse. Kageyama gets a little too eager and uses too much tongue; Kei laughs into his mouth. 

“What are you, a dog?” Kei asks, partly disgusted but mostly giddy, as they pull apart for air. Kageyama’s face folds in embarrassment. “Stop slobbering all over me.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Kageyama snaps, fingers twitching on Kei’s skin. He takes in a deep breath, his cheeks stained a beautifully ugly shade of red. “Well, you’re not any better, Tsukishima. You’re kissing me like you’re afraid I’m going to break.”

 _No_ , Kei thinks with a jolt. _I’m afraid that_ I’m _going to break._

_Why are we doing this?_ he wants to ask, but Kageyama is looking at him with stars in his eyes and a wobbly grin on his lips, without any worries about the future and all elation in the present, and it’s all Kei can do so as to not melt into his arms. 

“You’re the last person I would expect to break,” he says instead, entirely honest but still a half-truth. “You’re kind of, I don’t know—” He pauses to hide his face in Kageyama’s shoulder, thumbs at the underside of his jaw. “—unbreakable.”

“Unbreakable, huh,” Kageyama echoes in a breathless laugh. “Okay.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Kei wakes up to his phone blasting PinocchioP and blinks the sleep out of his eyes when Yachi’s voice filters, tinny and commanding, through the speaker. 

“Get out of bed,” she says, allowing no room for leniency. “We’re getting breakfast.”

So they get breakfast in a small cafe near the far east side of campus at 10:42, which is probably closer to brunch than breakfast, but Kei is too tired to argue with her. 

He bites into his apple tart and glares over the rim of his glasses, squints against the late morning sun. His head is still pounding with a hangover from hell. He decides for the seventh time in the past ten minutes that he will never so much as look at alcohol again in his life.

Not just because of how he feels like he’s been clobbered in the head with a hammer, but for a myriad of reasons. First and foremost: his lack of emotional control. Holy shit, if it was anyone else besides Yamaguchi that Kei had cried in front of, he’d have packed his bags and been halfway to the North Pole by now. And, well, compared to how Yamaguchi had cried when he’d opened his first university acceptance letter, Kei’s momentary lapse in composure isn’t much to write home about. But compared to how Kei usually handles overwhelming feelings like this— which is just to keep them locked up tight somewhere behind his stomach like a ticking time bomb and pray they don’t explode— yesterday was the emotional equivalent of a Category 5 hurricane. 

Which is to say, truly and utterly awful. 

Yachi drums her fingers on the tabletop, effectively knocking Kei out of his thoughts. Her pink nail polish is chipping. “Yamaguchi told me what happened,” she says. 

Kei’s head throbs. It’s either dread or the hangover. Probably both. “Okay.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

No. Yes. 

Both answers are equally true; but there is a time and place for spilling out all of one’s emotions, and a Sunday breakfast with his fingers sticky from the sugar of a frankly mediocre apple tart and blindingly cheery sunlight streaming in through the windows isn’t the place to show off all the gross bits of his heart. So he settles for, “We’re broken up. And it sucks.”

“Yeah,” Yachi says. “I get it.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The next day, which is an otherwise uneventful Thursday, Yachi, about an hour before midnight, sidesteps Kei and barges into his and Yamaguchi’s apartment with all the unabashedness of both of their mothers combined. “We’re going shopping,” she announces. “I need a new rug. Aoi’s cat puked all over mine three hours ago.”

Kei, who has had no prior knowledge up to this point of Aoi or her cat, let alone said cat’s unfortunate digestive problems, says: “What the fuck.”

Thirty minutes later he finds himself standing in a KMart with a winter jacket thrown over his pajamas, trying to choose between a burgundy-colored rug and a plum-colored one. His feet hurt. His head hurts. Everything hurts. It’s a wonder what sixty straight minutes of discussion about the merits and downsides of feudal Japan’s hierarchy system, however exciting, can do to a person. This was nearly seven hours ago and his head is still ringing with thoughts of Toyotomi Hideyoshi and his restrictions on the weapons possession of samurai. 

There’s also the fact that at volleyball practice earlier today, he’d gotten chewed out by the coach about his half-hearted blocks and piss-poor receives, which was humiliating to say the very least. _You can’t ever hope to earn a place as a starting player with form like that_ , coach had said. _We picked you because you showed potential. Don’t throw it all away_.

He considers, for the thirty-fifth time since arriving in this store that’s so brightly lit it's almost nauseating, falling asleep on one of the many sofas on display, but figures it’s not worth the trouble of being escorted out by security. He shifts his weight. It doesn’t help. 

“They’re the same color.”

Yamaguchi grabs him by the shoulders. “No, they’re not,” he says firmly, like it’s the most pressing matter plaguing the human race. Like he doesn’t have an exam next week about circuits or whatever the fuck that he hasn’t started studying for yet. Like he’s not as bone-tired as Kei is. “The burgundy is more reddish. Can’t you tell?”

Yamaguchi may be as bone-tired as Kei is, but Kei is more stubborn. And more of an asshole; Yachi, for once, is no exception. “No.”

It’s probably because of this stubborn assholery, then, that ten minutes later, Yachi chucks a throw pillow into his face. She claims it’s an accident, but her eyebrows are furrowed in the same way that they are when she’s guilty, and Yamaguchi isn’t trying one fucking bit to hide his shit-eating grin. 

“What the hell was that for,” Kei grits. He adjusts his glasses and chucks the pillow right back. Yachi catches it easily and chokes on a laugh, so red in the face that Kei, even in this near-sleep state, feels an inkling of worry that she might pass out. “Stop bullying me.”

“You looked like you were about to fall asleep standing up,” Yamaguchi says, catching him by the sleeve and tossing an arm over his shoulder. “What do you say we get some ice cream?”

Kei says no to getting ice cream, several times, like, so many goddamn times that it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore, but Yamaguchi and Yachi have built up a stupid immunity over the years to Kei’s protests, however half-hearted or not they may be, and the worst part is that Kei himself is the sole distributor of this awful vaccine. 

_No_ , Kei says— to ice cream, to brunch, to study sessions at two a.m. where none of them know jack shit about whatever each other is studying but provide as much moral support as they can muster up while delirious, what have you— and they hear: fine, I’ll put up with you; sure, I wouldn’t mind your company right now; please come and sit with me, I’m not going to say a word because I’ll probably start crying so just stay here. 

So they get ice cream. Kei is about to order vanilla, like he always does (contrary to popular belief, he does not like strawberry ice cream on the basis that it tastes like absolute shit) but Yachi informs him that the strawberry ice cream at this specific diner has chunks of actual strawberries in it, so he orders that. 

“Oh,” he says. “This isn’t bad.”

Yachi nods so vigorously Kei prays she doesn’t get a concussion. “It’s really good, isn’t it?”

Stubbornly, Kei says: “Not bad.”

Rug shopping, as it turns out, is a more labor-intensive task than he’d previously thought, because the moment he puts a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth, he finds that he’s starving. Yamaguchi, like some sort of mind reader, or rather, let’s be realistic here, like a good best friend, orders a plate of fries for the table and a cheeseburger that the two of them cut in half with scuffed cutlery and share. 

Yamaguchi licks mustard off his fingers. Kei squints at him. “That’s disgusting.”

“I don’t care,” comes Yamaguchi’s reply from around a greasy knuckle. “I’ve had worse. My mom has a video of me when I was three years old, eating a handful of dirt.”

Kei squints even harder. “ _What_ ,” he says. “What the f— you know what, never mind. Do whatever the fuck you want.”

Yamaguchi does whatever the fuck he wants. He steals all of the soggy fries. He dips his spoon into Kei’s ice cream because he quote-unquote _needs a palate cleanser_. He feeds Yachi a crinkle cut pickle with his bare fingers.

“That’s not hygienic,” Kei says, lip curling in disgust before he can help it. “That’s really— that’s fucking gross.”

“It’s okay.” Yachi takes a sip of water. “I didn’t get any vaccines last year, anyway.” 

Fucking _unhinged_ , the both of them. Kei doesn’t know what sort of heinous crimes he’s committed in a previous life to be stuck with them. 

“Yacchan’s trying to set up a dating profile,” Yamaguchi announces out of the blue. Yachi chokes on an ice cube, and swallows it down painfully. 

“Wow, Yacchan,” Kei says, eyebrows shooting up. “The girls around campus not doing it for you?”

Yachi, in response, slams her head into the table so hard it rattles. When she straightens back up, there’s a faint pink mark on her forehead. She opens her mouth, but what he gets instead of any attempt at a coherent response is a noise that makes her sound like she’s been stabbed. 

“That’s not the problem,” Yamaguchi snickers. “I found out yesterday—”

Yachi hides her face in her hands. 

“—that she’s crushing hard on one of her classmates.”

Kei blinks, not understanding. “So why are you making a dating profile?”

“It’s not that simple,” Yachi groans from between her fingers. “She’s so hot.”

Kei shakes his head. “Still not seeing the problem.”

“Yacchan refuses to talk to this girl,” Yamaguchi says, “on the basis that she’ll probably pass out if she does, so she thinks if she makes a dating profile and finds her there, it’ll be easier to break the ice.”

“Yacchan,” Kei says with all the genuine sweetness he can muster at one a.m., “that’s so fucking stupid.”

Yamaguchi half gasps and half giggles, and it results in an odd sort of choking noise. “ _Tsukki_ ,” he chides, but his eyes are sparkling with mirth. 

Yachi groans. “You’re so _mean_! What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“You could just _talk to her_ , for one,” Kei suggests mildly. “It’s so much easier than all this convoluted bullshit.”

It’s funny, Kei thinks, as he watches Yachi bemoan her shitty love life, how he can give this sort of advice out to others so easily and still finds it difficult to follow himself. 

He thinks of Kageyama, and the unread voicemails sitting in his inbox. He thinks of Kageyama, and suddenly his headache comes rushing back in full force. “Fuck,” he says. “I keep thinking about Kageyama.” He tugs off his glasses. “I need more ice cream.”

Drowning one’s feelings in ice cream, as it turns out, is not a viable solution. Drowning one’s feelings in any substance is not a viable solution, and Kei only fully realizes the repercussions of his actions when he has to essentially be dragged back to the apartment because his head feels like it’s made entirely of molasses. 

“I’m tired,” he says, but it comes out more like a burp. Yamaguchi wrinkles his nose. 

“Of course you are,” Yamaguchi says. “It’s almost 3 a.m. Most people would be.”

“No,” Kei groans. How does Yamaguchi not understand? Where did his mind reading powers go? “Like— Like _emotionally_ tired, you know? I’m sick of this shit. We broke up months ago and I still—” He slaps his forehead, like that’ll get rid of all of the emotions suddenly welling up in his chest. “God, I fucking hate him!”

Yamaguchi sets him down on his bed and sits next to him. “I think you’re being a tad dramatic.”

“No, I’m not,” Kei says, stubbornly. “He’s so stupid. I wish he’d never confessed to me. My life would be so much easier.”

Even as he says this, he knows it’s partially untrue. Maybe everything now would, in fact, be easier if Kageyama hadn’t made his feelings known, but that summer was made all the better with the kisses he would sneak when their friends weren’t looking, by Kageyama holding his hands on blustery afternoons while they walked back from Sakanoshita Store. 

“I miss him,” he says. And what an understatement that is. 

“You know what _I’m_ sick of?” Yamaguchi asks, voice taking on a sharp edge. Kei feels like he’s going to throw up, and it has nothing to do with the fact his stomach is full of ice cream or that he’s so tired he could pass out any second. “I’m sick of the fact that all you’ve been doing the past few weeks is moping over Kageyama when you could easily call him and clear things up. What did you even text him?”

“I—” Kei shuts his eyes. “I told him that I missed him and that I was sorry for missing him and that I hated him. And maybe that I was crying. I don’t know. I went back and forth on that. Don’t make me look at those texts or I’m going to start crying all over again.”

Yamaguchi sighs loudly, pulls Kei closer so Kei can rest his head on his shoulder. “You’re being a real piece of shit, you know.”

“Don’t make me talk about this right now,” Kei says hoarsely. “I can’t do it.”

Yamaguchi runs a hand through Kei’s hair. It’s a comforting gesture. Kei feels a little childish, a little dramatic, a little bit of everything and all around terrible. 

“I won’t.”

* * *

**Missed call from Kageyama Tobio 👑 (2)**

**Unread message from Kageyama Tobio 👑:**

> stop being a dick just answer your fucking phone

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Hey,” Hinata says one time, early in their third year. By now, Kei has all but given up confessing his feelings, and has made peace with the fact that he will keep them locked up inside of him and take them with him to his grave. “What would you do if someone confessed to you?”

 _I would say no_ , Kei thinks immediately, and it’s the truth, he knows, even as his gaze slowly meanders to Kageyama, who’s currently crouched down low to the polished gym floor, receiving the brunt of a brutal spike with his entire body. 

_No_ , because it’s easier, simpler. He’s built up a rapport over the years with Fate herself, has landed himself in her favor with his wit and rationale. Don’t take the chance, and you won’t crash and burn. Don’t, under any circumstance, willingly dangle yourself over the edge. 

(He doesn’t say any of that, though, especially not to _Hinata_ of all people, so he settles for:

“Why? Are you planning on confessing to me?”

“What?” Hinata squawks, face contorting in disgust. “ _Gross_ , why would I ever have a crush on you?”)

And on the day of their high school graduation, Fate laughs in his face as she pulls the rug out from under him, as all of the logic and good sense unspools like loose thread from his head. Because Kageyama steals the words that have stayed stagnant for months in the murky depths between Kei’s ribs and says, “I like you.”

 _Oh_ , Kei thinks, as his insides swell with all the force and abruptness of a supernova, white-hot and bursting through the seams of his skin. 

_Oh no_ , as he opens his mouth and says, “I like you, too.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The following Friday, Kei wakes up and chooses: violence. 

That’s what Yamaguchi would say, anyway. In reality, Kei chooses to dye his hair. Yamaguchi thinks this is a terrible idea, but, and Kei means this in the kindest way possible, fuck Yamaguchi. 

He would’ve dragged Yamaguchi himself kicking and screaming with him to the nearest drugstore this morning, but Yamaguchi’s Fridays are packed while Kei’s are free, outside of volleyball practice in the afternoons, and Yachi is helping Aoi take care of her sick cat, so Kei goes with the next best option and brings Sato With The Pink Undercut from his 2 p.m. Psych 112 lecture along for the ride. 

“What color is your hair naturally?” Sato asks, peering at a box of auburn hair dye. 

“Uh.” Kei reaches up and touches his hair, a little self consciously. “This is natural.”

Sato’s eyes go wide. “Fuck _off_ , really?”

Sato With The Pink Undercut from his 2 p.m. Psych 112 lecture is one of three Satos Kei has had the misfortune of running into this past semester. The second Sato is Sato The Libero With The Buzzcut From The University’s Volleyball Team, and the third is Sato From The Fourth Floor Of The Library Who Constantly Looks Like He Has A Stick Up His Ass. But neither of them are relevant right now.

Sato With The Pink Undercut announced his presence in Kei’s life by arriving late to the first lecture of the semester and squeezing into the seat next to him, face pink with exertion and breathing loudly through his studded nose. Kei took one look at him and thought, _oh, no_. 

He was validated in his claim when, after finding out he was exactly one day older than Kei, he proceeded to lord this fact over him constantly, as if in the 24 hour head start in life he’d been granted, he’d both reached enlightenment _and_ discovered the cure for cancer. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Kei says some thirty minutes later, sitting on a stool that they’ve dragged into the bathroom, “but when I first met you, I thought you would be a pain in the ass.”

Sato blinks. “So it’s safe to assume that you don’t find me annoying now?”

“No.” At this, Sato’s gloved hands go still on his nape. “Let me clarify. You’re still a pain in the ass, but I can at least tolerate you now.”

Sato laughs and purposefully reaches over to smear dye down Kei’s forehead in retaliation. “Wow, you’re a piece of shit.”

“Thank you. It’s one of my defining character traits.”

An hour and a half later, Sato snaps a picture of him in all his freshly dyed pink haired glory before they head off to their 2 p.m. Psych 112 lecture together. 

“Not gonna lie,” Sato says, fixing Kei’s damp fringe, “you look kind of hot.”

A vicious sort of pleasure unfurls at the base of Kei’s stomach. “Good.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


**From: Tsukishima Kei**

> [image]

> dyed my hair

**From: Yamaguchi Tadashi 🍟**

> PINK?????

**From: Yachi Hitoka 📋**

> PINK!!!!!!!! 

**From: Hinata Shouyou 🍊**

> PINK?!?!?!? 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Kei knew, the moment he decided to dye his hair— whether or not he knew it would be pink— that today would be a rather remarkable day. However, the universe apparently decided that the rush of excitement he got from pink hair needed to be countered with something else. In this case, one particularly bothersome upperclassman. So about twenty minutes after Psych 112 has ended, Kei runs into, of all people, _Kuroo Tetsuroo_ in a cafe down the street moments after he sees him waving goodbye to Sawamura— which, by the way, is a development he could’ve never seen coming— and is immediately slapped in the face with: 

“Nice hair, Tsukki. Nasty breakup?”

“Wow,” Kei wheezes. “What the fuck?”

He should’ve pretended he had no idea what Kuroo was talking about, but the words catch him so off guard that they open the floodgates for all these terrible feelings that he’s so carefully tucked away, and with just one or two simple questions, Kei finds himself recounting everything. 

Their brief relationship that lasted all of that last summer after high school. Their breakup, and whatever the fuck it is that Kei is going through now with so much bottled up inside him that he thinks he might explode. Longing, for a boy who’s in Tokyo and is throwing everything he has into volleyball. Regret, for breaking up; maybe even for liking him in the first place. Guilt, because _shit_ , is he really the only one not over this relationship? 

“Kageyama, huh,” Kuroo says, all casual, like Kei’s palms aren’t sweating so badly that they’re _wet_. “You have a thing for setters?”

Kei doesn’t think he has a particular thing for setters, but Kuroo definitely has a thing for making people talk. He’s got a penchant for annoying the truth out of people. Or maybe Kei just needs to talk to a third (fifth? Yamaguchi and Yachi are sort of involved in this, right?) party about this whole situation.

Kei glares at him, wipes his hands on his jeans. “Just the one.”

“Just the one,” Kuroo echoes. “You know, Tsukki—” He peers at Kei with an uncomfortably scrutinizing gaze. “—for someone so logical and strategic, I'm surprised you’re fucking things up this badly.”

Kei really _has_ forgotten how annoying Kuroo is. He considers simply ignoring the backhanded compliment, but curiosity wins out. “What are you talking about,” he says flatly. He tries to sound bored. Kuroo doesn’t buy it for a second; his grin turns sharp.

“Well, first of all,” Kuroo says, as Kei contemplates laying here in the sun until he shrivels into a husk of a person and dies. “You’re feeling guilty for entirely the wrong reasons. Feeling guilty for still liking him does nothing except hurt yourself. Feeling guilty for ignoring him will at least drive you to reach out to him. Cutting people off because _you’re_ hurt just hurts everyone.”

Kei swallows and blinks at his knees. “Uh, yeah.” His stomach feels like it’s caving in on itself. “I guess you’re right.”

“Oh, I definitely am,” Kuroo says lightly, like he’s giving a lighthearted presentation on the most effective ways to declutter one’s bedroom instead of ripping Kei’s insides to shreds bit by bit, and turns to fully face him. Everything is suddenly made a thousand times worse; now Kei has nowhere else to look but directly at him. “And secondly, just because volleyball’s his number one doesn’t mean there’s no space in there for you.”

Kei’s head spins. “Oh.”

“The thing you need to understand is that for people who throw themselves entirely into their passions— for your boyfriend, it’s volleyball— those come first and foremost, before any person they love. It’s hard to separate a person from their passions because they’re such an intrinsic part of them. Family, friends, _lovers_ —” At this, Kuroo wiggles his eyebrows, and Kei desperately hopes his glare distracts Kuroo from his embarrassed flush. Judging by the shit-eating grin on Kuroo’s face, it doesn’t work. 

“They all make a person who they are, but they aren’t an intrinsic part of someone,” Kuroo says. “Hell, if two people were one and the same, don’t you think that would make for a boring relationship?” 

Kei shrugs. “I guess so. Yes.”

“Coming in second place, Tsukki,” he says, “doesn’t mean you’re loved any less.”

“Oh,” Kei says. The words wrap tight around his chest. “ _Oh_.”

Kuroo’s arm is around his shoulders now, pulling him closer. Kei’s throat is so clogged with emotion he can barely breathe. His ears are burning, his face is burning, his chest is burning with everything he’s feeling, and it’s terrible. Truly and utterly terrible. He really needs to pick better friends. Needs to hang out with people who let him avoid all his problems instead of making him face them head on.

“Didn’t know you were such a big crybaby,” he distantly hears Kuroo say, knuckles running through his hair. “Oh man, if I’d known this back in high school, I would’ve never let you live it down.”

“I wasn’t like this in high school,” Kei hiccups. “It’s all Kageyama’s fault.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo sighs. “Yeah, I get it. Love is one hell of a drug.”

It takes a few minutes for Kei to calm down enough to regain any coherence, and Kuroo stuffs a tissue up his nose with a hearty laugh. Kei, in response, elbows him in the stomach.

Kuroo leans back. “Now, _thirdly_ ,” he says, and Kei braces himself for whatever’s coming next. “You’re telling me that Kageyama doesn’t have feelings for you.” He pauses, and Kei realizes he’s supposed to reply.

“Yes.”

“Now, you’re also telling me that Kageyama keeps messaging you. Telling you to call him back.”

Kei swallows. “Yes.”

Kuroo makes a wounded noise. “You are _not_ this stupid, Tsukki. I’m not spelling it out for you.”

“He’s just too _caring_ ,” Kei says. He knows what Kuroo is insinuating. He refuses to give it a second thought. “He cares about me because we’re friends, not because he has any feelings for me.”

“Okay, fine,” Kuroo relents, letting out a huff. “Let’s say he really doesn’t have any feelings for you. But as his _friend_ , you have a responsibility to not be a complete asshole and ignore him. He cares for you, you care for him, and even if, _if_ , they’re in different ways, you owe it to him to return his calls. Just because you refuse to feel anything doesn’t mean you can refuse a friend.”

“I’m not refusing to feel,” Kei snaps, but even as the words leave his mouth, he registers that that might not be the entire truth. Completely ignoring Kageyama’s calls? Distracting himself by going out with Yamaguchi and Yachi? Dying his hair fucking _pink_ ? His eyes flick up to meet Kuroo’s. He’s grinning. Kei groans. “I’m not _refusing_ to feel,” he repeats. “I’m just distracting myself.”

Kuroo shakes his head. His smile has turned sad. 

“What’s the difference?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Life deals Kei a double whammy, because when he gets back to the apartment, he finds that his phone is ringing with a call from Kageyama. 

He’s delayed the inevitable for long enough; he hits accept. “Hello—”

“Oh my god, _finally_. You are such an asshole.”

The vitriol with which Kageyama spits those words startles him, and he freezes for a few moments before quietly responding with: “Yeah, I— I deserve that.”

“You couldn’t have even _opened_ my texts?” Kageyama’s voice is acid. “You’re so— Fuck, I can’t believe you. You make me so fucking angry.”

Kei tastes copper, and distantly realizes he’s chewed on the inside of his cheek so hard it’s started to bleed. “You make me angry, too.”

“ _What_? How?”

“In every way possible,” Kei says. His voice is so quiet he wonders if Kageyama can even hear him. “Just in the way you— you _exist_. All the way in Tokyo.”

“What?”

“I wish—” He cuts himself short. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me,” Kageyama says, and his voice sounds so ragged it’s terrifying. “Just _tell me_ how you feel, stop keeping everything inside of you all the time! Do you think that just because we’re broken up I don’t care about you anymore?” He makes a frustrated noise. Something thuds in the background. “I think about you all the time and you just _ignore me_. That does nothing except hurt both of us.”

 _I know_ , Kei thinks. _I know that now. It’s probably too little too late at this point, but I’m sorry._

It’s funny how stupid he’s been. He knew, all this time, that ignoring Kageyama wasn’t the best thing to do, but now, with Kageyama’s trembling breaths echoing in his ears, the actuality of it sinks in, cutting into him so deep it touches bone.

“I wish you weren’t in Tokyo,” he says. “Or I wish I was there with you. And I wish we didn’t have to break up.” He glares at the floor. “Also, I think I dyed my hair because I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You could’ve called me back.”

“I could’ve,” Kei agrees. “I should’ve. And for that— I’m sorry.”

“Oh, _what_ ,” Kageyama says coldly, “just because you say sorry now means that you’ll instantly stop ignoring me from now on? Did you have a change of heart overnight?”

“No,” Kei says. “No, but I was talking to Kuroo-san earlier, and, I mean, he helped— he helped me— he got it through my head that I’ve been awful to you—”

“You needed to talk to _Kuroo-san_ to realize how shitty you’ve been?” Kageyama spits. “You didn’t think for a second—”

“I did!” Kei says, and it’s pure desperation. “I thought about it, I knew— I know what I did was terrible but I thought— I think— I was just scared.”

“Scared,” Kageyama repeats. “Scared of _what_.”

“Of— Of missing you too much,” Kei says. “I missed you— I miss you, and I didn’t want to think about it. So I ignored you.” He swallows against the lump in his throat. “I felt awful every time I thought about it so I— I tried my best to distract myself.”

The line is silent for a few moments. 

“That’s so _shitty_.”

“I know,” Kei says. His voice wobbles. “And I really am sorry.” 

Kageyama sniffs wetly. It’s the ugliest sound Kei has ever heard. “If you’re _really sorry_ , then do you promise to reply to my calls and texts from now on?”

“I promise.” 

“And you won’t ignore me for weeks again.” It’s not a question. Kageyama has run out of patience, and Kei doesn’t blame him one bit.

“Yeah. Yes,” Kei breathes. “I promise.”

“So you’ll tell me if you’re sad?”

Kei laughs, because he thinks he might cry otherwise. “What?”

“I want you to tell me if you’re upset,” Kageyama says. The ice has melted out of his voice, leaving raw hurt in its wake. Kei’s insides curl in on themselves. “Even if it’s about something small, like— you spilled your lunch everywhere and it ruined your day.”

“Fuck you, spilling my lunch everywhere is one of my biggest fears,” Kei says. Kageyama really is going to make him cry, the bastard. “How dare you trivialize my anxieties like this.”

“I don’t—” Kageyama laughs, a wet, meek thing. “I don’t know what trivialize means.”

“Oh,” Kei says, and suddenly he’s laughing, too, a full belly laugh that resonates through his bones and makes him feel, if only for a moment, a thousand times lighter. “Aren’t there any dictionaries in Tokyo you can buy?”

“I guess there are,” Kageyama replies. He sniffs. “But I’d rather learn it all from you.”

Kei is supremely grateful Kageyama can’t see him right now, can’t see the way those words send a red-hot flush to his face. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he says through his laughter. “You smooth motherfucker.”

“I learned from the best.”

From there it’s easy, so easy that Kei feels foolish. He could have solved this problem with just one call and he kept pushing it off for weeks, letting the toll of it weigh him down so much he could scarcely breathe. He really is horribly stubborn. Even more so than Kageyama.

Almost an hour later— _an hour_ , a full hour of talking to Kageyama during which at no point had he felt like crying— he asks: “So what do you think of my hair?”

“I like it,” Kageyama says immediately, and Kei feels so giddy it’s sickening. “Pink suits you.”

“Do you think I look hot?”

“You could shave off all your hair and I’d still think you look hot.”

“Oh, hush,” Kei says. “You flatter me.”

  
  


* * *

“My mom’s making katsudon for me when we get back,” Kei says, glancing out the window. The landscape zips by at light speed. Mid-December has brought with it a light dusting of snow atop the bare trees. “She told me she’ll try to get the breading super crispy this time. It always ends up kind of soggy.”

Yachi hums. Yamaguchi is asleep on her shoulder. “My mom’s a terrible cook,” she says, “but she told me she’s going to make omurice.”

“It’s hard to go wrong with that.”

“It is,” Yachi agrees. “But she messed it up last time. Overcooked the eggs.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she had the heat up too high.”

It’s dark by the time they arrive back home, and Kei eats his fill of katsudon with shatteringly crisp breading (“Eat more, Kei, I made all of this just for you!” “I’m so full, Okaasan, I literally can _not_.”) and lets his mother gush over his hair (“Oh, you look so cute with pink hair.” “It looked better earlier, now my roots are starting to show.” “Just take the compliment!”) before heading upstairs. His phone screen is lit up with a message notification from Yachi. 

**From: Yachi Hitoka 📋**

> [image]

> SHE BURNT THE RICE THIS TIME

> mother please i am begging;;; just turn down the heat

**From: Tsukishima Kei**

> why don’t you cook next time?

**From: Yachi Hitoka 📋**

> tsukki

> i’ll let you in on a secret

> tbh i’m surprised you haven’t found out already

> but

> i actually suck at cooking T_T

**From: Tsukishima Kei**

> i can’t believe you have the AUDACITY to make fun of your mom when you yourself can’t even cook

> jfc yacchan where do you think you got it from?

**From: Yachi Hitoka 📋**

> my dad took the good cooking gene with him when he left

**From: Tsukishima Kei**

> YACHI

  
  


* * *

  
  


He’s leaving Shimada Mart when he sees him, across the street.

“King,” he calls, but Kageyama is already watching him, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Are you stalking me?” 

“Maybe,” Kageyama laughs. He shakes his head, lips quirking up at the corners. “I actually saw you going in earlier. I figured I’d wait for you out here.”

“You could’ve followed me in,” Kei says. “It’s cold out.”

“I figured I’d save Shimada-san the embarrassment,” Kageyama, says, coy, and dear god, Kei wouldn’t be surprised if he melted into a puddle right this very instant. Kageyama reaches over and pulls Kei’s hand into his, peering into the bag. “What’d you buy?”

“Look at you,” Kei snickers. “Pretending to care what I bought just so you can hold my hand.”

“I’m _curious_ ,” Kageyama says defensively. Plastic rustles noisily. “These are all snacks! Do you eat this kind of stuff all the time?” His mouth is pinched into a disapproving pout. Kei wants to kiss it away.

He shrugs instead, looks down at their hands. “When I’m feeling lazy, yeah. And now that both my brother and I are out of the house, we don’t have any snacks at home. I wanted some.”

“These are all processed garbage.” Kageyama’s frown deepens. “You’re slowly poisoning your body, you know.”

“Bummer.” Kei shifts his stance. “What do you suppose we do about this situation, then? I’m craving something to eat, but you’re not letting me eat these.”

“I’ll make you food,” Kageyama says earnestly, Kei’s flirting going completely over his head. He’s flirting in his own way, however unintentional. “Come to my house, I have a ton of easy recipes I can show you.”

He’s so endearing Kei almost doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Careful, now,” he says. “Don’t you know the best way into a man’s heart is through his stomach? Someone might think you’re trying to seduce me.”

Kei can see the lightbulb go off in Kageyama’s head as his eyes clear with understanding. “Oh,” he laughs. “Oh. Don’t worry. I’ve already done that once before, and I didn’t even need to feed you to do it.”

“You’re awful,” Kei groans, stepping away. “The absolute _worst_.”

“So that’s a no to the food, then?”

“No, it’s not.” Kei takes a few steps. “This way’s your house, right? Come on, feed me.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Kageyama has a myriad of recipes, as expected of a top-tier athlete, but he ultimately chooses one and gets to work, looking through the cabinets for various containers.

“I know you have a sweet tooth,” Kageyama says, “so I think you’ll like this. It’s not _super_ healthy, so I don’t have it often, but it’s easy to make.” He pulls out a box of sugar and points. “Could you get me two bananas?”

Kei cuts the bananas into thin slices, as per Kageyama’s instructions. He places them into small bowls, and Kageyama sprinkles the brown sugar, vanilla extract and cinnamon over top. Then small dollops of butter, and into the microwave it goes.

“Once the sugar’s halfway melted, we stir it,” Kageyama says over the hum of the microwave. “And then microwave it more until it’s completely melted.”

“You’re right,” Kei says as the butter turns to glossy liquid, darkening the sugar. “This really doesn’t seem healthy at all.”

“It’s not,” Kageyama agrees. “Plus, we’re adding ice cream on top. But if anyone asks, the bananas make it automatically healthy.”

Kei nudges Kageyama’s side. “How sneaky,” he says, “finding loopholes in your strict athlete diet.”

“I said I don’t have it _often_ ,” Kageyama says, nudging back. He pushes a little too hard; Kei loses balance. Kageyama’s hand is quick to latch onto his bicep, steadying him, and stays there, like a brand burning its way through his sleeve and pressing hot against his skin. “Just every once in a while.”

The banana mixture is done a couple of minutes later, and Kageyama spoons a healthy heap of vanilla ice cream into their shared bowl on top.

“Dig in.”

It’s good, _really_ good, and Kei is only a little bit— he _swears_ it’s only a little bit— in love with Kageyama— or rather, how he was able to pinpoint the perfect recipe that would satisfy every bit of Kei’s sugar cravings. He sucks a bit of ice cream off his upper lip, and is thrilled when he notices Kageyama’s eyes tracking the movement. 

“If the whole volleyball thing doesn’t work out for you,” Kei says— his spoon clinks against Kageyama’s— “you have a promising career as a dessert chef.”

“That’s a real job?”

“I think so, yeah,” Kei mutters, lifting another spoonful of ice cream and cinnamon-sugar banana into his mouth. “But I don’t know the proper job titles for these sorts of things.”

Kageyama hums in acknowledgement. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m not going to become a dessert chef. I like volleyball too much.”

It’s that innocuous statement that, childishly, selfishly, dampens the slivers of joy peeking through his ribcage. I like volleyball too much— _so I don’t like you_ , Kei hears. 

In all honesty, it’s way too dramatic. What’s wrong with him? Is it something about being at home that makes him behave like a hormonal teenager again?

“Hey,” Kageyama’s fingers find his chin, tilt his head up. He hadn’t even realized he was looking downwards. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Kei says with a laugh that sounds so forced it makes him stifle a cringe. “Just tired, I didn’t sleep well last night—”

“Please,” Kageyama interrupts. “Don’t do this.” His hand leaves his chin and his palm slides against Kei’s cheek. “I told you to tell me when you’re upset, didn’t I?” 

Kei places his hand over Kageyama’s and runs his thumb over his knuckles absentmindedly. Runs his tongue over his teeth. Runs through all the excuses he could give that sound believable and comes up blank. Kageyama watches him expectantly. 

“Kuroo-san told me,” he starts slowly, tilting his face into Kageyama’s palm and leaning into it, “that people like you, pro athletes who’ve made the sport they love into a career, they love differently.” He swallows. His throat is so dry. “You have so much love in your heart for volleyball that most other people in your life take second place. And it’s not a bad thing, it’s just something I have to accept. Except that I— I’m having a little trouble accepting it.”

“Oh,” Kageyama says, quiet. “I mean— I— What can I do? To help?”

“There’s nothing you can do,” Kei says around the lump forming in his throat. Leave it to Kageyama to make him cry with ease. Or maybe it’s his own fault, for letting Kageyama affect him so deeply. “This is entirely on me.”

“I don’t know if something like this can be _entirely_ on one person,” Kageyama says. He stands up and walks around the table to stand in front of Kei. “There must be something I can do better, right? Should I call you more often? Or—”

“No, no,” Kei interrupts. “I think if you called me any more frequently I’d end up missing you even more than I already do.” He laughs softly. “Seriously, there’s nothing on your end that you can do. It’s just me.”

Kageyama makes a soft, noncommittal noise before reaching up with his free hand and gently pulling Kei’s glasses off. Then, before he can even get a word out, Kageyama tugs Kei forward, his face nestled in Kageyama’s chest, into a tight hug. 

“I don’t like seeing you upset,” Kageyama murmurs. “But thank you for telling me this time. And not just avoiding the problem.”

“Believe me, I would love to avoid the problem,” Kei says into Kageyama’s sternum. “But you’re so annoying that I have no other choice.”

“You dick,” Kageyama snorts, and reaches over to give Kei’s hair a sharp tug. “You can’t talk about your feelings for more than ten seconds without making a joke.” He pulls on his hair once more. Kei’s toes curl in his socks. 

“I know you’re doing this to irritate me,” Kei says hoarsely, eyes fluttering shut as Kageyama gives his hair another pull. “But joke’s on you, I’m into this shit.”

Kageyama goes still above him, and he gives Kei’s hair one more experimental tug. Kei involuntarily makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat. When he opens his eyes, Kageyama’s expression is of one of such visceral hunger that it’s a little terrifying. 

“Holy shit, King,” he laughs, his entire body thrumming with energy. “You gonna fuck me on the table, or what?”

“Don’t be stupid,” comes Kageyama’s instant answer. His face clears and flushes pink. He leans down— oh, oh god— and plants a solid kiss— right in the center of Kei’s forehead. 

To say he’s disappointed would be like saying the moon landing was just kind of cool.

“You’re ridiculously annoying,” Kei snaps a few moments later, after he’s regained his composure, after it's safe to say his heart won’t leap out of his chest. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“You have,” Kageyama says sweetly after a long moment. He brushes a delicate thumb against Kei’s cheek. “So many times. I like it.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You know,” Kei says one Saturday morning, about a week later. The familiar winter air is sharp against his skin, Kageyama’s warmth soft against his side. “I really am glad we broke up.”

Kageyama makes a small, surprised noise. “Really,” he says. It’s not so much a question as it is a statement. “You didn’t seem very glad when we ended things.”

 _Well, of course not_. For all that he’d prided himself on his rationality and logic, he’d been an embarrassing, hiccuping mess the night they’d broken up. But then again, he was eighteen and already terrified of the future— not just in the sense of what it would mean for his and Kageyama’s relationship, or rather, the newfound lack of one, but everything. University. Living in a new city. Being away from his family. 

“I wasn’t _then_ ,” Kei says. “But now I’d rather be broken up than do long distance.”

He presses into Kageyama’s side as a frigid breeze coasts over them. Their shoulders and arms are their main points of contact. Then thighs, knees. They’re close, closer than they’ve been in three months, but it still feels distant. Kei wants to hold his hand. It would be warmer, he thinks, than his own fleece-lined pocket. 

Kageyama, like always, takes Kei’s thoughts and puts them into the air. “Give me your hands,” he says. “You didn’t bring gloves, did you?”

In his haste to meet Kageyama for— for what, a walk? In this weather?— whatever it is that they’re doing, he’d forgotten to bring the important things. His gloves, for one. His earmuffs. His rationality. 

“I forgot them.”

“Stupid.” It’s fond. As fond as Kageyama can sound, anyway. Kei only knows it by the way the left side of his mouth quirks up. It’s horrible. 

“You’re the stupid one,” Kei says stubbornly. His face feels too warm all of a sudden. Kageyama peels off his glove and hands it to him. Kei frowns. “What do you want me to do with this?”

Kageyama frowns harder, like it’s a competition. “Put it on.”

“What, _one_ glove—?”

It’s like something out of his mother’s favorite weeknight drama, how corny the gesture is. The rush of heat up Kei’s spine only makes everything worse. _This is terrible. Truly the worst day of my life_ , he thinks, as Kageyama’s bare palm, almost burning to the touch, slides against his own. 

“You just want to hold my hand.”

Kageyama ignores him and squeezes his hand. The sensation runs all the way up his arm. “Better?”

“It’s been two seconds, King. Heat doesn’t transfer that fast.” What the fuck, is he having a heart attack? There is no reason for his insides to be churning so violently. He swallows, like that’ll somehow soothe his nerves. “Don’t you think this is a bit much?”

“What?” Kageyama looks over at him. Their eyes meet for the first time in several minutes. There goes his stomach, doing a backhand spring like it’s trying to qualify for the Olympics. “Holding your hand?”

“Yes, _holding my hand_ ,” Kei grumbles. “We’re not dating anymore, King. We can’t do this.”

“Says who?” Kageyama says. “What’s so bad about holding hands?”

“Exes don’t hold hands.”

“Not exes. And I’m not holding your hand to be romantic,” Kageyama says. He squeezes Kei’s hand a little tighter. “I’m holding it because you’re cold.” 

“Potato, po-tah-to. You’re holding my hand.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Sometime at the start of their second semester, where spring is still too far out of reach and summer is but a distant memory, Yamaguchi gets a call from Kageyama and screeches so violently that Kei worries for his vocal chords. “You’re fucking _joking_ !” he yells into the phone. “ _Olympics_?!” 

And so Kei finds himself, about twenty minutes later, curled up in a far corner of the apartment with Kageyama’s voice floating into his right ear. “Can I tell everyone one of my exes is an Olympic athlete?” he asks. “It’ll make for a fun story.”

“Exes,” Kageyama scoffs. “We were never officially dating.”

“Ah,” Kei says, lowering his voice. A grin inches across his face; a moment passes, as quickly as it came, in which he wishes Kageyama were here to see it. “I didn’t know you had a habit of sleeping with all your friends. I’m hurt, Tobio.” Kageyama’s breath catches. The sound makes Kei’s head spin. “I thought what we had was special.”

All he hears is static for several long seconds. And then, terse and— Kei realizes with a jolt— _bashful_ , Kageyama says, “Shut up.”

Kei laughs sharply into the phone. It feels off. Everything feels off. It should all be perfect, and it is, but tilted, ever so slightly, off its axis. He laughs, and it feels like it’s muffled beneath six layers of uneasiness. But he pushes it all aside for a second to say, “Make me.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You’re not drinking?”

It’s an uncharacteristically cool summer’s night when they get dinner in Miyagi, the four of them. Kei is sitting next to Kageyama, their knees bumping occasionally. 

“Nah,” Kei says, sipping at his water. “Last time I got drunk I started crying over you.”

“You—” Kageyama’s eyes go wide. He seems at a loss for words. “You _cried_? You never told me that!”

“Well, of course I didn’t, it was embarrassing,” Kei says. He wants to look away, but at the same time, can’t bring himself to stop staring at the contours of Kageyama’s face. “You really think I would’ve willingly told people that I was heartbroken?”

“Am I _people_?” Kageyama asks. “You could’ve told me.”

“And what would you have done? You’re the reason I was heartbroken.” This is a pointless argument— and a half-hearted one at that. He snorts. “I already embarrassed myself enough by drunk texting you. I didn’t need any more humiliation.” He shakes his head and adds, “But I cried because I missed you. End of story.”

“I can’t believe you cried,” Kageyama says. He’s smiling, like it’s something cute. _He_ looks cute, smiling like that, Kei’s traitorous mind supplies. “I would’ve liked to see that.”

“You would’ve _liked_ to see that,” Kei repeats flatly. “You would have liked to see me cry.” He blinks. “Oh my god. Oh my god, is this a kink? Is this a sex thing? Because if it is, honestly, I’m not totally opposed to it—”

“Did you forget that we are in _public_ ,” Yamaguchi hisses, swatting Kei’s arm with a surprising amount of strength. “Lower your voice!” 

“It’s his fault,” Kei says immediately, shamelessly, pointing to Kageyama. “He started it.”

Yamaguchi squints at him, but Kei finds it hard to take him seriously given the drunk flush that’s already started to appear on his cheeks. Between the redness and the freckles, he looks like a strawberry. “ _You_ started it,” Yamaguchi says. “You— god, you two are insufferable. Just stop flirting.”

“ _Flirting_ ,” Kei says, mock-scandalized. Kageyama huffs out a laugh, leans into his side. “I’ll have you know, I’ve done no such thing—”

“Oh, my god, _shut up_ , just shut up.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Kageyama kisses him that night, a quick thing, gone so fast that Kei almost wishes he hadn’t done it in the first place. Kei stares at him, dumbfounded. The gears in his brain screech and groan, bullheaded in their refusal to move. Under the dim streetlamps, Kageyama’s face is lit in fluorescent blue-white. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, a shy, cheeky grin dimpling his cheeks. He’s not the least bit sorry. “I think I’m a little too drunk.”

“Fuck you,” Kei spits, want coursing through his veins so wildly he feels dizzy with it. It overrides everything; his mind can’t even create a proper insult. “What the hell, that’s so unfair.”

“Unfair?” Kageyama echoes, confusion knitting his brows. “What do you mean, _unfair_?”

“You can’t—” His voice comes out hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again. “You can’t just kiss me like that.” But even as he says it, he can feel his cheeks hurt with just how wide he’s smiling. “You’re going to give me a heart attack. And then I’m going to make you pay my medical bills, you know. As compensation.”

“I don’t want to,” Kageyama says. “Just don’t have a heart attack.”

“Then stop kissing me.”

Kageyama pouts. “Fine, I guess.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Kageyama Tobio is your _ex_?”

“Yeah,” Kei says. On screen, Kageyama scores a service ace. He breathes in, breathes out, steady, controlled. It’s remarkable how truly and wholly he loves volleyball. Kei can see it shine in every movement he makes. The run up for a spike. The stretch of his arms for a block. The precise flick of his wrist as he goes for a setter dump, and succeeds. 

“You’re proud of him,” Yamaguchi says quietly from his side. “Don’t even try to hide it, you’re so proud.”

“What about it?” Kei mutters, and _holy shit_ he’s blushing. “He’s my friend, am I not allowed to be?”

“I never said that.”

“Wait,” Sato says. “Tell me more about Kageyama— Kageyama-senshuu.” Kei goes a little dizzy at that. _Kageyama-senshuu_. “What’s he like? Is he nice?”

“No,” Kei says. “He’s awful. And quite frankly, a terrible kisser.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Second year starts the same as first year, except for a few changes. 

Firstly, Sato With The Pink Undercut from his 2 p.m. Psych 112 lecture is no longer Sato With The Pink Undercut from his 2 p.m. Psych 112 lecture, because 1) neither of them are taking Psych 112, and haven’t for an entire semester, 2) Sato no longer has an undercut, and 3) even if he did, it is no longer pink. 

Secondly, he becomes a starting middle blocker again, on the university team. It’s a relief, getting to play again, getting taken seriously again, getting to feel the press of the ball against his fingertips and _fwip_ it back to the other side of the net, _wham_ against the floor. 

(No, of course Hinata hasn’t rubbed off on him. How ludicrous.)

Thirdly, people start asking him out. Yamaguchi says it’s because he no longer looks like he constantly wants to murder someone in cold blood, so naturally Kei tells him to shut up and that the pink hair was probably multiple people’s sexual awakening. 

It’s a bit flattering, if he’s being honest, being asked out. He says no, obviously, and eventually, he hears through the grapevine that there’s a rumor going around that he has a secret boyfriend. 

“They’re not _entirely_ wrong,” Kei says, picking at his nails. “But at the same time, they’re also very much wrong.”

“Well, there’s _that_ rumor,” Yachi says. “But there’s another one, too— Aoi told me that her cousin’s boyfriend’s sister told her that _she_ heard from a classmate that you’re secretly banging half of the history department and everyone’s been keeping it a secret.”

Kei clicks his tongue. “Are they at least saying my dick is big?”

Yachi raises her eyebrows. “Is it?”

“Yes,” Kei deadpans. “It’s huge.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


On Tuesday, he gets asked out. 

It’s really nothing new, except for the fact that Nakanishi is a friend of Yamaguchi’s and Kei actually knows him fairly well. Except for that fact that Nakanishi asks him out in an otherwise entirely unromantic setting, in a far corner of the library at 11 p.m. while they’re both munching on granola bars with their under eyes stained purple. Except for that fact that for the first time since Kageyama, Kei finds that he wants to say yes. 

Nakanishi interprets his silence as surprise, instead of what it really is. Panic. Terror. Guilt. “You don’t have to answer right now,” he says, flashing Kei a carelessly attractive smile. “I know it’s kind of out of the blue. Get back to me whenever.”

Yamaguchi slips back into the seat next to Kei some few minutes later, and Kei tries desperately to drown his guilt and fear in his notes. It only works a little. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Three days later, when he’s in one of the university’s gymnasiums and meticulously taping his fingers, Nakanishi shows up. Nakanishi, who’s made it one of his defining characteristics that he’s good at basketball, is here wearing ill-fitting knee pads and fiddling with a roll of freshly bought athletic tape. The plastic wrapping hasn’t even been taken off yet. 

“Nakanishi,” Kei says, trying not to frown. “What are you doing here?”

“I figured I’d give volleyball a try!” Nakanishi says. He’s nervous, judging by how he keeps rubbing his nape, which is a little flattering and, subsequently, sickening. “I know you and Yamaguchi have been playing since high school so I figured, you know— I’d see if I like it.”

“Yamaguchi’s not here, though,” he says before he can think. He only regrets it a little, because Nakanishi expertly hides his nerves behind a boisterous laugh. 

“Yeah, well.” Nakanishi shrugs. “ _You’re_ here!” He holds out the athletic tape. “Would you mind helping me tape my fingers?”

It’s nothing if not impressive, how far Nakanishi’s willing to go, but unfortunately for him, Kei doesn’t take his hands in his own, press the tape to his skin in slow, deliberate movements, glance up into his eyes and marvel at how close they are—

Ah. Now he’s just thinking of Kageyama.

(On another note, how blind was he that he didn’t notice Kageyama’s _blatant_ flirting— unintentional or not— during their third year? Between that and Hinata’s _what would you do if someone confessed to you_ , Kei’s beginning to think he deliberately ignored all the signs.)

But anyway, Kei doesn’t do any of that. Instead he gestures with his own already-taped fingers as Nakanishi clumsily winds the tape around his fingers, and tries not to snicker at the sheer frustration on his face.

They split into teams, and Nakanishi worms his way into Kei’s team, which is as annoying as it is endearing. Nakanishi, for all that he’s tall and has wonderful hand-eye coordination, is understandably pretty shit at volleyball, and while he’s a decent blocker, he constantly gets thrown off-guard by the delayed spikes.

“I thought I was jumping way too early at first,” Nakanishi laughs after the ball gets slammed down onto their side of the court, “and I guess in a way I was, but it didn’t occur to me that they’d time their spikes like that!”

“Yeah,” Kei says. “It’s all about patience.”

After about the fourth or fifth missed block, Nakanishi finally blocks a spike— albeit weakly— and sends the ball falling into the opposing court. “ _Yes_!” he yells, and holds his hands up for a double high five. Kei indulges.

Except now, every time Nakanishi scores a point, which is becoming more frequent by the minute because of how quickly he picks up the techniques, he holds his hands up for a high five. He tries to be subtle; sometimes he’ll high five the other players before Kei, sometimes he’ll skip Kei altogether if he’s too far away. But he’s doing it on purpose, and it’s quickly becoming irritating. Once or twice Kei pretends to be too engrossed in adjusting the tape on his fingers to notice Nakanishi’s hands, and is relieved when Nakanishi drops his hands and steps away.

After a few matches, they drag themselves into the showers, and afterwards, Kei finds himself toweling his hair dry with Nakanishi next to him. 

It’s a relief to find that he doesn’t find Nakanishi attractive in any way besides on an aesthetic level, even when he is dripping wet and nearly naked. It’s also a relief to find that he _wants_ to tell Kageyama this, all of it, unlike how in his first year he’d have much preferred to hide away and wallow in self-loathing. 

But what is there to tell, exactly, besides the fact that he’d wanted a date? This is nothing resembling a crush, or infatuation, and Kei doesn’t know Nakanishi well enough to have somehow started to like him.

“Hey, Tsukishima.” Nakanishi nudges his elbow, too practiced to be casual. “You hungry?”

Kei’s _no_ is interrupted by an embarrassingly loud growl from his stomach. He grimaces; lying now would just be outright rude. “A little.”

“Well, did you hear about that new restaurant that opened up down the street? I’ve heard it’s really good, and I was thinking of going there for dinner,” Nakanishi says hopefully. Kei’s starting to feel a little bad. “Would you like to join me?”

Kei sighs quietly. “Maybe later,” he says. Hesitates. Bites the bullet. “Listen, Nakanishi. I need you to know that I’m not interested in dating anyone right now.”

“Oh.” Nakanishi’s shoulders sag. His smile goes stiff. “No problem. I just, uh, just wanted to shoot my shot.”

Kei nods. “Alright.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“What are you, my therapist?”

“No,” Kageyama says. “I’m your sort-of-not-boyfriend.”

“Ex.”

“No, we’re not exes.” Kageyama shakes his head. “We’re getting off track. Just tell me why you wanted to go out with him.”

“Well, I _told you_ that I don’t know,” Kei snaps. “I would’ve explained if I knew why.”

“Think about it, then,” Kageyama says. “I thought you were smart.”

“Not when it comes to this, apparently.” He drums his fingers on the desk restlessly. “Thinking about this is giving me a headache. Talk to me about something else for a bit.”

“Um.” Kageyama frowns. Presses his lips together as he thinks. “Okay. Well, Ushijima-san almost got hit in the face with Romero-san’s water bottle today. It was after practice, and Romero-san was juggling— different things, like his water bottle, a volleyball, his wallet, I don’t remember what else, but basically what happened was two of the things hit each other in midair and went in different directions. And Romero-san’s water bottle went right towards Ushijima-san.”

Kei hums. 

“And Ushijima-san ducked, really fast. Like, so fast it was more funny than impressive.” He has a faint smile on his face now. “Romero-san’s water bottle hit the lockers really hard, too, so it’s good that Ushijma-san avoided getting hit, because he probably would’ve got a bloody nose or a nasty bruise or something, and it would’ve been a real pain in the ass—”

“I think I miss being wanted.”

Kageyama breaks off, face twisting in confusion. “What?”

“I liked being asked out,” Kei says, “even though I said no. Because it was flattering, to know that people thought I was hot, or that they wanted to get to know me better.” His stomach is churning again. “And I already knew Nakanishi, so when he asked me out, I guess it occurred to me that any dates we would’ve gone on would’ve been so much less awkward because we’re already friends.” He spares a glance up at his screen to look at Kageyama’s face. He doesn’t look angry, just bemused. 

“If you want to go out with him—”

“I don’t.”

“No,” Kageyama says firmly. “You don’t want to _want_ to go out with him. There’s a difference.” He sighs. “Listen. We’re not dating. I think you should try it out—”

“No,” Kei snaps. Frustration tickles his throat. “I considered saying yes because I miss— you. I miss you, and I miss having you—” God, this is so embarrassing. “I’m not going out with him.”

“You are so _stubborn_ ,” Kageyama grumbles. “I’d rather you have fun on a date than sit there, being all miserable over me—”

“I’d rather sit here being miserable than go on a date and feel like I’m cheating on you.”

This takes Kageyama aback. Kei, faintly, horribly, feels like crying. “We’re not dating, how would you be—”

“I don’t know, okay?” He feels like crawling out of his skin, he’s so restless. “Don’t ask me all these questions. I’m not going out with anyone when I— when—” He shakes his head. “I’m not going out with anyone.”

Kageyama sighs, irritation wrinkling his brow. “I don’t know whether to be frustrated or pleased that you’re so loyal.”

“Both, probably.”

The clock on Kei’s desk ticks loudly as silence permeates the room. And then Kageyama opens his mouth again. 

“Well, in any case,” he says, “thank you for telling me these things instead of keeping it all in your head.”

“You‘re welcome,” Kei mutters, pillowing his head in his hands. “Even though you didn’t like what I had to say.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

“I’ll be happy when—” Embarrassment refuses to let the words escape his throat. “— when I get to be with you again.”

Kageyama’s face pinks, but he’s still frowning. “You can’t pin all your happiness on me. That’s too much pressure.”

It still surprises Kei, how Kageyama is able to pick up on these things better than Kei. Maybe Kei’s being blindsided by all of it because he’s too busy trying not to feel too much. Kuroo really _was_ right, he thinks begrudgingly. 

“Let me rephrase, then,” Kei says. “I _am_ happy. But I’d be happier if—” Why is this so terrifying? He’s let Kageyama see him in all his birthday suit glory before, but talking about his _emotions_ is too mortifying? “— I got to be with you again.”

Kageyama lets out a long sigh. “I know,” he says. “Me too.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The start of summer vacation before third year sees Kei in Sendai Museum with a name tag pinned to his shirt and his very own space to store his belongings. He doesn’t get to go through the archival collections as much as he’d like to, but he can watch the museum curators clean the displays with careful strokes of a duster and listen to the tour guides as they walk groups of people around from exhibit to exhibit. 

Mainly he organizes paperwork, takes boxes from room to room and then back again. On an eventful day he gets scolded for taking too long, but it’s too embarrassing to admit he got lost among the identical back hallways, so he keeps his mouth shut and bows in apology. 

On his days off from work, he practices volleyball. His blocks are, if he may say so himself, stellar, as expected of a middle blocker. His receives are good, too, but Kobayashi has an absolutely lethal spike that always seems to ricochet off of Kei’s forearms, no matter what. He needs more practice in that regard.

 _You have to be ready for recruitment season_ , coach reminds him. _Stay in tip top shape._

Kei finds out that the Sendai Frogs might be looking into recruiting players on the team the same day Kageyama calls him to tell him that he’s in Sendai. Which is to say, heart attacks upon heart attacks and pits so sweaty he’ll need a shower. 

“You’re in Sendai?” Kei asks incredulously. Yamaguchi, who’s peeling an orange in the kitchen, looks over quizzically. “Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?” 

“Um,” Kageyama says sheepishly. “I forgot. I had a couple of days off and just wanted to see you. That’s fine, right?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Kei says, feeling vaguely like he’s been spun around fifty times in succession. “Do you— Are— Where are you? Do you need me to come pick you up?”

“I think I’m within walking distance of your apartment,” Kageyama says. “I called because I don’t know your exact address. So— yes. Come pick me up.”

Kei tells Yamaguchi to go get Kageyama because, frankly, he needs a minute. Stupid Kageyama and his stupid honesty is going to send Kei into cardiac arrest. And then he’ll die. July 8th, 2017, 14:08. Cause of death: too many goddamn feelings.

Kageyama shows up with gleaming eyes and a smile on his lips. “Hi,” he says, and it takes all of Kei’s willpower not to throw himself at him.

“Hi, yourself.”

Conversation flows easily between them, easier when Yachi shows up half an hour later. It’s a relief, even if unsurprising, that even after weeks, almost months of very little contact because of their respective packed schedules, their chatter is no less smooth. 

They order dinner. Kei steals some of Yachi’s oyakodon while Yamaguchi pulls out some sake he bought recently, pours it into glasses.

The evening goes by in a flash. They eat and drink, and drink some more. “I’m not drinking anymore,” Kageyama says steadfastly after a certain point. “I can’t risk getting a hangover tomorrow.” They all follow suit, because they all have responsibilities of their own and getting drunk on a random weekend isn’t the best idea. 

Yachi yawns against Kageyama’s shoulder. “I’m going to head out,” she says, straightening herself out and patting his arm. “This was fun. It was nice seeing you, Kageyama-kun.”

“It was nice to see you, too,” Kageyama says, as Yachi stands up. “I should probably get going, too, it’s getting late, and—”

“Wait,” Kei interrupts. “You’re not staying?”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Kageyama says, glancing between him and Yamaguchi. “I don’t want to intrude. I’m sure you guys are busy—”

“Not really,” Kei says, probably too quickly. Yamaguchi doesn’t even bother hiding his snicker. “I don’t have work tomorrow. And there’s no way you can leave now, it’s not safe going out at night by yourself.”

“Oh,” Kageyama says, considering this. He nods. “Okay.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“I think I’m gonna take the shirt off.”

Kei looks over in the dark room and barely makes out the shape of Kageyama sitting up in the spare futon he’s laid out next to Kei’s bed. “Are you hot?”

“It’s just too tight,” Kageyama says. “You said this was your _biggest_ shirt?”

“It’s your fault for having such massive tits,” Kei mutters. Kageyama laughs quietly and peels the shirt off, revealing smooth skin and rippling muscles. “You can just leave it on the floor,” he says when Kageyama moves to stand. “It’s too much of a hassle to put it back right now.”

“Okay.” Kageyama leaves the shirt on the floor, and leans back, propping himself up on his elbows before looking at Kei. “You know,” he says slowly, “I’m feeling kind of antsy.”

“Antsy,” Kei repeats. He can’t stop staring at the slope of Kageyama’s shoulders. “Why?”

“Because of you, I think.”

Disgusting. Kageyama should really consider a career as a romance novelist. 

“What did I do?”

Kageyama shakes his head, looking away for a few moments. “Nothing in particular. I just missed you. I’m glad I’m here now.”

He can see it now, the headline: _Former V.League player and Olympic athlete Kageyama Tobio’s debut romance novel shoots to Number 1 on the Best-Sellers List._

“You’re so sappy it's almost disgusting,” Kei replies. 

“Romero-san has a joke for that,” Kageyama says. “ _You’re so sappy, you could become a maple tree._ ” He snorts. “Hoshiumi says it’s a sign that his Japanese is improving, that he can make puns like that.”

Kei snickers into his pillow. “Good for him. Now he can terrorize his kid with shitty jokes in Japanese, too.”

Kageyama hums, leans in and reaches over. Tucks a lock of Kei’s hair behind his ear. Kei has to remind himself to breathe. 

“Oh, be careful,” Kei says, his heart beating erratically in his chest, “with romantic gestures like that. Someone might think you like me.”

Kageyama’s lips turn into a frown, fingers faltering against the shell of Kei’s ear. “But I _do_ like you.”

He shouldn’t be surprised anymore, with how honest Kageyama is, but he laughs all the same. “You’re killing me here,” he says, reaching up and clasping Kageyama’s hand. “Don’t you know how to flirt?”

Kageyama shakes his head. “I guess not,” he says.

“You guess not.”

It’s Kageyama who leans in first, because it always is, even after all these years. It’s Kageyama who does these things first because Kei is still too much of a coward. He presses their mouths together deliberately, pushes Kei onto his back and licks into his mouth so well that it’s all Kei can do so as to not let out a moan. 

The bedsheets get pushed aside as Kageyama clambers on top of him, hands finding Kei’s waist. Kei’s own hands are still by his sides, fisted in the sheets like he’s still a shy virgin— shy, maybe; virgin, definitely not. He and Kageyama had a lot of fun together that summer after graduation. 

Kei’s hands are still by his sides, but not for long, because Kageyama’s teeth find his jaw, and he whispers _touch me_ into Kei’s neck. Kei’s entire body thrums with energy, and his arms wind around Kageyama’s shoulders to pull him even closer. 

Kageyama has always run warm, but right now he seems to burn hotter than a flame, searing into Kei’s skin wherever he touches. His neck, his arms, sneaking under his shirt and pressing a soft palm to the small of Kei’s back. Kei’s hands can’t seem to linger anywhere, skitting from Kageyama’s face to his shoulders to his chest, tweaking his nipples— they’re sensitive; Kageyama whimpers into Kei’s mouth— because he wants to touch all of it, everything at once, map out and memorize the hard planes and soft ridges of Kageyama with his fingertips. 

Kei’s shirt gets rucked all the way up to his neck at some point, and Kageyama’s mouth attaches itself to Kei’s chest, sternum, stomach, in loud, wet, kisses, but it’s only when Kageyama’s teeth nudge the waistband of Kei’s pants that his brain whirs to life and refuses to let him think with his dick anymore. 

“Stop,” he gasps, and Kageyama backs off immediately, like he’s been burned, eyes wide and panicked. 

“Did I hurt you?” he asks. Kei can see the deep furrow of his brow even without his glasses. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Kei says, pulling his shirt back down. His chest is starting to feel heavy. “I’m okay. You didn’t do anything wrong. We were just getting a little too carried away.”

“Oh.” Kageyama looks a little put out. “I thought you wanted to get carried away.”

Kei looks away, shakes his head. “Not like this.”

Kageyama’s disappointment gives way to confusion. “Like… this?”

Kei exhales. 

“Tobio,” he says, reaching forward and holding Kageyama’s face in his hands, “Tobio, Tobio.” He smiles. “Are you going to wake up tomorrow and ask to be my boyfriend?” 

Kei knows the answer he’ll receive, but it stings all the same when Kageyama’s face falls. 

“Exactly,” Kei says when Kageyama stays silent, running a thumb along his cheekbone. He sighs, like he’s trying to exhale all the tightness in his chest. Presses a quick kiss to Kageyama’s mouth. “I don’t want to do this now and regret it tomorrow.”

“We—” Kageyama starts, and frowns. “I don’t—” He huffs, frustration twisting his features. 

Kei waits. 

“Okay,” Kageyama says eventually, his face clearing but brow still pulled tight. “Okay.” He kisses Kei’s knuckles and pulls away, swinging his legs off the bed. “Good night, Kei.”

Kei lies back down, waits until Kageyama is settled back onto the futon. “Good night, Tobio.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Seeing Kageyama’s face first thing in the morning is definitely a sight he could get used to. He won’t, not anytime soon, anyway, but it’s a pleasant sight nonetheless. 

“Yamaguchi left for work thirty minutes ago,” Kageyama says softly. His face is so close that Kei can make out the faint hairs on his chin. “I wanted to let you sleep in, but I got bored. Do you always wake up this late?”

“On my days off, yeah,” Kei says, voice raspy with sleep. He pushes himself up. “Ugh, I need to eat.”

Kageyama, as it turns out, has made tamagoyaki for breakfast. 

“I made it sweet,” he says, “because I figured you’d like it better.” He grins. “Yamaguchi was a little annoyed because he likes it better savory. He said I was biased.”

Having Kageyama here, in his apartment, waking him up and feeding him breakfast— it’s like a puzzle piece that’s sitting just atop the space it’s supposed to fit in, maybe a little crooked, and hasn’t been pushed in yet. Kei wonders when it’ll get pushed in. Wonders who will be the one to push it in. Wants to be the one to push it in and have the whole world in his hands, all to himself. 

No— No. Because the rest of the puzzle isn’t completed yet, either. And maybe it’ll never be, and that’s just how life goes, swapping out whole sections of the puzzle to fit in different places, carefully molding the edges so that they’ll match. 

It’ll all come together soon. He has to wait, just a little bit longer.

“Aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“Aren’t you biased?” Kei asks cheekily. “Towards me?”

Kageyama doesn’t answer, only hides his smile in his fist. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“I’ve been meaning to ask, your Highness,” Kei murmurs into Kageyama’s ear on their way to the station. “How did you learn to kiss like that?”

It takes Kageyama a few moments to find his words. A pink flush is creeping up his face. “I,” he says. “I saw— There’s this video on how to practice kissing with your fist— I watched that.”

“You—” Kei turns away so he can laugh properly. “You _what_?”

Kageyama glares at his feet. “What the hell’s wrong with that? Stop laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing _at_ you,” Kei says. “I’m— I— _Tobio_ .” He leans into Kageyama’s side, insides swirling up a storm. “Tobio, that’s so _cute_.”

“I’m not cute,” Kageyama grumbles. His flush is quickly turning a violent shade of red, so naturally, Kei piles it on thick. 

He hums. “Kissing practice with your hand is pretty cute.” He runs a hand through Kageyama’s hair before reluctantly pulling away. “All for me, King?”

He really should remember who he’s talking to when makes jokes like that. Because Kageyama immediately says, _Of course it was all for you_ with so much raw earnestness that it makes Kei blush like he’s in high school again. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


If he sprints to the cafe down the street instead of the one two blocks out of the way, and if the line doesn’t stretch along the perimeter of the interior like it does most mornings, and if the barista with the curly red hair who makes orders like she’s trying to break the sound barrier is working, then there is still a chance, however slim, that Kei will still make it to his 8 a.m. Anthropology lecture on time.

What happens is this:

He sprints halfway to the cafe before tripping over a pothole, landing all wrong, and spraining his ankle. The line at the cafe seems longer than the ever growing list of complaints against his upstairs neighbor who likes to blast heavy metal right when he’s about to go to sleep, and so he briefly considers not getting coffee and just hobbling the rest of the way to class, but he’s developed an unhealthy addiction to caffeine in the past two months and without his morning dose he’ll likely be consumed alive by a throbbing headache and render himself comatose. 

The barista with the curly red hair is not working this morning, instead replaced by the guy with the tiniest septum ring known to man who likes to make orders like he’s racing a sloth and trying to lose. So by the time Kei gets his coffee (triple cream, triple sugar, caramel drizzle) it’s 8:04 a.m. 

If he ignores the twinge of pain in his ankle and maintains a breakneck sprint the entire way to class, and if the mousy looking kid ruffles through his bag for over a minute looking for a pen before finally just asking the person next to him, and if his professor grumbles about people from the day before not cleaning the board off properly and painstakingly wipes it all down, then he might be able to make it to class before the attendance sheet finishes its trip around the classroom and he’ll still get attendance credit for the day—

Who’s he kidding. There’s no way. 

So now, miserable for more reasons than one, he shuffles out of the cafe and is instantly slapped in the face with yet another reason to wallow in his anguish. 

He’d missed it on his hobbling sprint to the cafe, but now, less frantic but no less tense, he stares at the storefront of the Uniqlo across the street to meet none other the magnified blue eyes of Kageyama Tobio printed on high quality glossy finish. 

“Jesus Christ.”

 _Aren’t you an atheist_ , he can hear Yamaguchi say. 

_It’s about the principle of it_ , Kei snipes back to the imaginary Yamaguchi in his head. On another note, what the fuck. Hallucinations shouldn’t start until he’s gone 72 hours without sleep, and Kei is fairly confident it’s only been 27. 

The universe is stubbornly refusing to give him a break this morning, so fuck it; he might as well accept his dreary fate. He crosses the street and buys the catalogue. He drops a couple of coins down the sewer grate. He walks to class and arrives nearly half an hour late. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Is it weird?”

Kei slowly looks up from his textbook, trying to reorient himself, to pull his head out of the chapter he’s reading on various historical methodologies. Sato is sitting across from him at a corner table in the library, with his own Medieval European Cultures textbook spread out on the table. He’s not reading it, though. The Uniqlo catalogue is sitting on top. 

“Is what weird?”

“Seeing your ex,” Sato lifts up the catalogue, “in a magazine.” 

“A little,” Kei says lightly. He knows what Sato is trying to ask. “They edited his face in some of the pictures. His jaw looks strange.”

“Oh,” Sato says, a little baffled. Kei carefully keeps a straight face. “I meant more, like, because he’s your ex—” He shakes his head, cutting himself off, no doubt thrown off by Kei’s unexpected answer. “Never mind.”

Kei smothers his grin. “Alright.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


They set up a video call, the five of them, now that Hinata is back from Brazil. Kei, Yamaguchi, and Yachi are curled up under the kotatsu with Yamaguchi’s laptop and a copy of the Uniqlo catalogue in front of them. 

Over the call, Hinata gasps loudly. “Yamayama!” he exclaims, and turns the magazine to face the camera. He’s pointing at a picture where Kageyama is sitting on a chair, legs spread, wearing yellow shorts and a light blue graphic tee shirt. “You’re packing!”

Kageyama grimaces, and Yamaguchi frantically flips to the page Hinata is pointing at to look at it for himself. Kageyama is indeed packing. The bulge in his shorts is almost obscene. 

“Is your dick really this big?” Kei asks, squinting. “Did they stuff your underwear or something?”

“I think it’s Photoshop,” Yachi says mildly. “Honestly, Kageyama-kun, you shouldn’t have let them edit you like this. It’s a little lewd.”

Kageyama covers his face. “I’m hanging up.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Before Kei has a chance to breathe, finals descend upon him like a starved beast. He has a Uniqlo catalogue sitting on his kitchen table. _The_ Uniqlo catalogue. The one with the thirty four pictures of Kageyama printed on thick, lacquered paper, and if Kei has counted and memorized the hard curves and soft angles of Kageyama’s face in each and every one of them, that’s between him and god.

He spends the next week and a half in a stress-induced haze. Hinata sends him strings upon strings of heart emojis and smiley faces but gives him his space. Kageyama sends him _eat properly_ and _sleep well_ texts and gives him even more space. Yachi and Yamaguchi are too stressed about their own exams to bother getting anywhere near Kei’s space. 

His mother sends Akiteru to his apartment to give him food. Akiteru drops off the food and does not give him his space. He gets all into his space and dumps useless advice onto Kei’s head about _taking it easy_ and _not getting too worked up about everything_ which does nothing except make his stress headaches worse. Akiteru has been out of school long enough to forget the sheer amount of work it takes to write a twelve page paper, and a good one, at that. Kei tells him to get the hell out of his apartment. 

So on a sticky Thursday afternoon, Kei takes his last final and his third year fall semester comes to a close. Notable achievements include: finally curbing his caffeine addiction. Making friends with his upstairs neighbor who likes to blast heavy metal right when he’s about to go to sleep. Properly receiving one of Kobayashi’s nasty spikes.

  
  


* * *

**From: Tsukishima Kei**

> when are you gonna be in miyagi? we should hang out

**From: Tsukishima Kei**

>not replying, huh? his royal highness must be real busy… 

* * *

  
  


Two weeks after finals have ended, Kageyama shows up at his apartment and says: “I have something to tell you.”

Kei knows it’s bad, judging by the hard set of Kageyama’s mouth, but then Kageyama says he’s going to Italy after this upcoming season and Kei’s head spins so fast he feels faint. 

He comes second to volleyball. It’s not supposed to be a bad thing, but right now, all Kei can think about is how badly he wants to be first. 

“Italy,” Kei repeats. His chest feels hollow, like everything in it has been viciously carved out and replaced with nothing but numb shock. “I don’t even— What time zone is that?”

“It’s seven hours behind us,” Kageyama says. He presses his fingers together. “Nothing is official yet, but I’ve decided that I want to go, and I’m not going to regret it, but—”

“I know you won’t regret it,” Kei says, staring at his feet. He doesn’t think he can handle looking at Kageyama right now. “I don’t want you to. I would never want that.”

“Okay,” Kageyama says breathily. He clears his throat. “Okay, well, I know— I know this is probably really bad timing, but I was thinking about it the whole way here—”

Kei’s chest feels tight. There’s no way that Kageyama wants to—

“— and I was hoping we could try again?”

Kei tugs off his glasses and laughs wryly. “Why do we always do this when someone is leaving? Why can’t—” A tear drips down his cheek, and he wipes it away, accidentally scratching his cheek in his haste. He barely registers the sting. “Is this really a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” Kageyama says. “But from now until the end of next season, we have— over a full year, and I really— I want—”

Kei looks at him. 

“I want you.”

Everything from there is slow, unhurried. Kei presses his mouth to Kageyama’s in a kiss that tastes like salt. _I want you_ , he says, in the way he takes Kei’s face in his hands and holds him like he’s seconds away from shattering. _I want you_ , in the way he lets Kei slip his fingers under his shirt, pressing at the thrumming warmth there. _I want you, I want you, I want you_.

They stumble to Kei’s bedroom, and he gets pressed onto his bed. His heart is beating so wildly he can almost taste it, skin burning so hot he has to remember how to breathe. Kageyama’s fingers find his waistband, and this time, it’s tugged down, down, off, onto the floor, discarded. 

Kageyama kisses up the insides of Kei’s thighs like he’s got all the time in the world, and maybe he does, when all the world is here, in this small bedroom in Sendai that Kei has all but associated with longing— for this, for Kageyama, for everything that he held in his fist, once upon a time.

Kei slams a hand against his mouth when Kageyama swallows him down, hands gripping his hips, the faint sting of carefully clipped fingernails against his skin. Kageyama pulls away, for a moment, to look up at him with wild eyes filled with wonder and say: “I want to hear you.”

So Kei lets Kageyama hear him, hear the startled gasps and pleased moans he would normally muffle with clenched teeth. Reaches down and clasps the hand that’s still on his hip, the one that hasn’t disappeared between Kageyama’s own legs, and with a cry, comes undone. 

A little while later, Kageyama presses his face into Kei’s nape, and inhales, slow and deep. “Kei,” he says, winds his arms a little tighter around his torso. “I was serious, earlier. I really do want to try again.”

Kei sighs, pulls Kageyama even closer. “Okay.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It should come as no surprise that it’s not automatically easy. Honestly, for the first week, everything feels worse. 

Kei’s mind is constantly buzzing with worries. Most are fleeting, trivial: _Should I have left him a voicemail? Does my text sound rude? I wore this shirt last time he came over, I can’t wear it again_.

Others are fleeting still, not trivial by any means, but baseless: _What if he gets bored of me? What if I’m not worth it? What if we break up?_

And another, one that shows up unannounced one otherwise boring evening and gnaws at him from the inside out, before finally, days later in Tokyo, he voices it.

“So much of this relationship has just been us waiting for each other— What if that’s all there is?”

Kageyama doesn’t understand Kei’s worry. To him, it makes absolutely no sense. Perhaps it doesn’t, and it’s just Kei thinking up a storm, like always. “What?” he asks, utterly perplexed. “But we’re together now. Do you not want to be?”

How can Kei explain that he does, of course he does, but he’s still scared that—

“What if it doesn’t live up to our expectations?” Kei asks. “What if we’re disappointed?”

It takes Kageyama a while to answer. He sits there, staring at their intertwined hands, brow pinched and lips pressed tight as he thinks, mulling over Kei’s words, turning them over and over in his head. Kei watches, then, as his face slowly clears and he looks up, eyes bright and hopeful.

“It’s all in our hands,” he says matter-of-factly. “All we have to do is make sure that we don’t disappoint ourselves.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


One of Kageyama’s visits coincides with the end of a particularly grueling workweek for Yamaguchi, and the two of them decide to let him sleep all day while they make him food. Kageyama declares that nothing beats tamago kake gohan with miso soup. Kei is too tired to have an opinion on the matter.

“You can relax, too, you know,” Kageyama says, gently poking at Kei’s undereyes. “You don’t look too great.”

“I appreciate the compliment, King,” Kei says, lightly swatting Kageyama’s hand away. The sarcasm sails over Kageyama’s head; he’s confused. “Let me get the ingredients out, at least. I’ll leave the actual cooking to you.”

He leans against the counter a couple of minutes later as Kageyama chops the tofu into neat cubes, cuts the green onion into thin, angled slices. The onion breaks apart into small pieces, the spinach leaves get rolled up, cut roughly as the sharp blade of the knife squeaks against the wetness of the greenery. 

It’s almost therapeutic, almost meditative, watching Kageyama prepare the ingredients with practiced ease. Watching him, in this cramped apartment in Sendai not even a foot away from Kei, meticulously, rhythmically bring the knife down, cut, scrape, peel. 

The stove clicks as blue flame ignites underneath the stainless steel pot. In goes the dashi powder, dissolving in the water and turning it opaque and golden. Slowly, little pockets of air make space for themselves as the water heats up, grow larger as the flame continues to roar. 

Reduce the heat, spoon in the miso paste. Kageyama picks up the cutting board and carefully drops all the vegetables into the pot. Kei takes the board and the knife and squeezes past him to bring them to the sink, washing and rinsing them off.

It ignites a warm feeling inside of him, the domesticity of cooking, of it all. The quietness, the comfort, the ease. Maybe Kei had been overthinking things after all. What is there to be disappointed about when even the most mundane of things makes Kei’s insides flutter like he’s a teenager all over again?

Kei cracks the eggs into the reheated bowls of rice as the miso soup is close to being done. Mixes them thoroughly together until they’re homogenous. 

It’s comfortably quiet in the kitchen, save for the bubbling of the soup and the faint hiss of the stove. And then:

“Are we doing this right?” Kageyama asks. 

Kei looks over, puts down the plastic wrapper he’s been fiddling with. Based on the quiet tone of his voice, there’s a good chance that Kageyama’s not talking about cooking. There’s a good chance that he’s gotten lost in his head. “Doing what right?”

“This.” Kageyama gestures between the two of them. The lines of his face are drawn tight, his shoulders squared. “Dating.”

This is a question Kei’s often been plagued with before. Should they be visiting each other more often? Less often? When should they talk on the phone, when should they give each other space? Is it normal to miss each other this much? It is, right? _Right_? 

“I don’t know,” Kei says slowly, “if there really is a right way or a wrong way to do this.” He reaches up, thumbs at Kageyama’s jaw. After all the times Kageyama has reassured him, Kei is more than glad to ease Kageyama’s worries. “Just answer me this, King: are you happy?”

“Yes,” Kageyama says immediately, eyes wide and earnest. “Of course I am.”

“Good,” Kei says. It’s a marvel, really, that even after everything, Kageyama never fails to make him blush. “I’m— I’m happy, too, so I’d say we’re doing something right.”

Kageyama nods. “We’re doing something right,” he echoes. His lips curl up into a faint, nervous smile. “Okay.”

Kei wakes Yamaguchi up a few minutes later with a pillow to his back. Yamaguchi groans, stretches like a cat and screeches like a pterodactyl. “What time is it?” he croaks, eyes still swollen with sleep.

“Late,” Kei says, as Yamaguchi slowly sits up. “Come on, get up. Tobio and I made lunch.”

“Oooh,” Yamaguchi laughs. How he can find a way to be annoying even while half asleep, Kei doesn’t understand. “You and _Tobio_ —”

Yamaguchi, rightfully, gets a pillow to the face. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Do you want to go on a date with me?”

The question is startling; he hadn’t even noticed Maeda’s crush on him. 

“I, uh,” he says haltingly. “I actually have a boyfriend. Sorry.”

Maeda’s disappointed expression makes Kei feel bad for a few moments, but it’s quickly overridden by a disgusting amount of giddiness. It’s a little strange, still, to say aloud, that he has a _boyfriend_. 

Strange, yes, but delightful.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s a very specific type of hellish nightmare, to be bedridden sick with a one-two fever and stuffy nose combo in the summer. The window is open; in float the shouts and laughter of children below, the hum of cars driving by. Someone living nearby has a cat; it’s meowing loudly.

“I can come by tomorrow evening—”

“That’s completely pointless, King,” Kei croaks, head throbbing. He glares at his cell phone. “I’ll be better by then. Just focus on your game. Stop thinking about me.”

“I never stop thinking about you.”

“ _Dear fucking god_ —” What a terrible, terrible mistake Kei has made, putting his cell phone on speaker. Yamaguchi leans back in Kei’s chair and lets out a downright evil full belly laugh. Kei’s head hurts tenfold. “Are you in a goddamn soap opera? That’s the grossest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah,” Kageyama huffs. Kei can picture the pout on his face. “Hoshiumi thinks so, too. He’s making a face at me.”

“As he should,” Kei says, at the same time Yamaguchi says:

“I think it’s a little sweet, though, Kageyama!” It may be genuine, but Kei knows for a fact that his main reason for saying it is to emotionally torture Kei as much as possible. “Tsukki just doesn’t know how to appreciate romance properly.”

“No,” Kageyama says, “he appreciates me.”

“Oh, of course he appreciates _you_ ,” Yamaguchi says. “But he’s terrible at handling romantic gestures. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Kageyama pauses for a moment to consider this. “I don’t think I’m very romantic,” he says thoughtfully. “But he just gets embarrassed really easily.”

“You know what I _don’t_ appreciate?” Kei cuts in. “Being talked about like I’m not here. Both of you can suck my dick.”

Kageyama snickers. “I’ve al—”

“ _Stop_. Stop talking right now.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


**From: Yamaguchi Tadashi 🍟**

> [image]

> lol he fell asleep while watching an old adlers vs rockets match

**From: Hinata Shouyou 🍊**

> isn’t he sweating under all those blankets????

**From: Yamaguchi Tadashi 🍟**

> nah, he has a fever :/

**From: Hinata Shouyou 🍊**

> oh no!!! (´Д｀。)

**From: Yachi Hitoka 📋**

> get well soon tsukki~~~

**From Kageyama Tobio 👑**

> he looks cute

**From: Yamaguchi Tadashi 🍟**

> oh, ew

**From: Hinata Shouyou 🍊**

> bleghhhh kageyama-kun, don’t be gross ಠ_ಠ

**From: Yachi Hitoka 📋**

> keep it sfw please!!

  
  


* * *

  
  


He’d be lying if he said he wanted the Adlers to win. 

He tells Kageyama this long after the game has ended, after the teams bow and thank the crowd for coming, after the players disappear to go shower. Kageyama frowns at him, a stray drop of water trickling down his temple. Kei wipes it away.

“You weren’t rooting for me?”

“I didn’t have a preference either way,” Kei says. “But it was fun to watch. Hinata had a lot of tricks up his sleeve.” He pauses. “Are you actually angry with me? I didn’t think you cared.”

“I don’t, actually,” Kageyama admits. “But Romero-san said you were probably devastated that we lost.”

Kei wraps his arms around Kageyama’s shoulders. “Do you want me to be?”

“Not really.” Kageyama leans in. “That would be annoying.”

Kei hums in assent against Kageyama’s mouth. His fingers graze Kageyama’s nape as he pulls him in closer, as their kisses grow less chaste and more hurried. It’s not a good idea to be doing this— there are still people milling about, and the hallway they’ve tucked away in isn’t particularly secluded. But Kageyama’s mouth is warm against his own, and Kei can’t find it in himself to pull away.

“Hey, Tsukki? Where— Oh!” Yachi waves her arms as they break apart to look at her. “Sorry!” she laughs, embarrassed. “Sorry. I just wanted to ask if you guys have a preference for what restaurant to go to for dinner.”

Kei drops his arms from Kageyama. “Can you give us a few minutes?” he asks, and Yachi nods, sheepishly ducking back around the corner. He looks over at Kageyama, about to ask if he has any restaurant preferences, but is startled into silence at the look of hunger on his face.

“Wow,” he laughs, head buzzing, knees going weak. “You okay?”

Kageyama only stares at him wordlessly for a few moments, before taking him by the hand and pulling him further down the hallway. 

“Where—” To say Kei’s heart is racing would be an understatement. “Where are you taking me?”

Kageyama pulls Kei’s hand tighter into his grip, slows down just enough to tug Kei closer. “I’ve heard there’s a bathroom way in the corner on the second floor that’s so secluded that no one ever uses it,” he says. “And I just want to kiss you, uninterrupted.”

“Oh,” Kei breathes. “Yeah, okay.”

The bathroom, like Kageyama supposedly heard, is very secluded and very much empty. Before the door even swings shut, Kageyama pushes him against the wall so hard Kei gets all the air knocked out of his lungs. If anyone asks, he doesn’t make an embarrassing noise, no, not even a quiet one, but the fact that he does is a secret that will stay hidden behind closed doors.

Kageyama licks into his mouth like he hasn’t gotten the chance to do so in weeks, even though at most it’s been a day. “Wow,” he whispers, pulling away after a few moments. “That was the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard you make.”

The wall he’s pressed against is probably filthy, and the floor is a little wet, and everything smells faintly like piss even though the air freshener is doing a whole lot of legwork to make sure it doesn’t. He doesn’t really care about any of that, though, because he thinks he blacks out for a moment as Kageyama’s words register, but even then, he can’t really be sure of anything right now except for the fact that their mouths are slotting together again. 

His thoughts come in bits and pieces, playing tug of war with whatever primal desires he has that are fluttering to life inside him. He thinks of kissing practice with a fist, of blunt fingernails digging into his flank, of wet teeth against his throat, and how, somehow, kissing in a public restroom on the second floor of Sendai City Arena makes all of those feel like absolutely nothing. 

“Tobio,” Kei gasps as Kageyama’s thigh finds its place in between Kei’s legs. “ _Tobio_ ,” as Kageyama’s mouth finds his earlobe. 

“Never mind,” Kageyama says softly, right into his ear. “ _That’s_ the prettiest sound I’ve heard you make.”

The sound Kei makes in response is not at all pretty, a strangled noise that sounds like he’s choking. He pushes Kageyama lightly, face aflame, and laughs. “You’re insufferable.”

“You like me insufferable,” Kageyama says, tangling his fingers through Kei’s hair. He pulls gently, and Kei feels his eyes slide shut. “You know—”

Kei’s instincts kick in the moment he hears the door open, and he shoves Kageyama so hard his wrists sting. He looks over at the now open door only to see Hinata, eyes wide and darting between the two of them. 

Kei feels his stomach drop. Hinata, as much as Kei’s fifteen-year-old self would loathe to admit, is intelligent; there’s no way he hasn’t put the pieces together. 

“Am I interrupting something?” he asks, all faux-innocent like he doesn’t know, and Kei, distantly, wants to throttle him. 

“No,” Kei says before he can even blink, but Kageyama, wonderful, amazing, absolutely fucking god-awful Kageyama, yells:

“Of course you are, dumbass! Now get the hell out of here!”

Kei and Hinata both say _Oh my god_ simultaneously, except Kei says it with horrified embarrassment, and Hinata with vicious glee. Kei thinks he might pass out.

“We’re getting out of here,” he grits out, dragging Kageyama out by the sleeve despite his disgruntled protests. He rounds on him once they’re out of earshot. “ _You_ said no one would come in there.”

Kageyama shrugs, peeved. “It’s not my fault Hinata found the most out-of-the-way bathroom! Maybe he had to take a shit or something.” 

“Alright,” Kei says, irritable and frustrated for more reasons than one. “Whatever. Let’s go.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


That night, they kick Yamaguchi out of the apartment but get a little too impatient, so Kageyama ends up giving him a two-for-one deal: finishing what he started that afternoon _and_ fulfilling a years-old promise— fucking him on the table.

(Kei makes sure to wipe the table down thrice with disinfectant.)

  
  


* * *

  
  


Kei graduates from university on a sweltering Friday in May. His mother plants a big kiss on his cheek, which is fine, welcomed even, but then Akiteru takes the opportunity to plant an even bigger kiss on his other cheek, and Kei can’t even shove him away because he doesn’t have the heart to sour his mother’s mood. 

He takes quite a few pictures with Yachi and Yamaguchi, as well. There are some where they’re brandishing their diplomas, others where they’ve struck a silly pose. By the end of it, Kei is smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. 

“Kei,” Akiteru whines, half serious. “You didn’t let _me_ hug you like that.”

So Kei lets Akiteru hug him like that, and for one of the pictures Akiteru pulls him close with his face in Kei’s hair like they’re children again, which is a little mortifying, but their mother is cooing in delight so he can’t even bring himself to shove him away. 

Akiteru squishes his face in his hands. “I’m so proud of you, Kei.”

Kei swats him away, beaming. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Kageyama is here, too, as is Hinata (“Oh man, seeing all this makes me wish I’d gone to university!” “You want to have gone to university for _four years_ just to have a graduation ceremony that last a few _hours_?” “Okay, I guess not…”) and they each throw an arm around him from either side— Kageyama around his shoulders, Hinata around his waist— as the camera clicks. 

“This thing seems annoying,” Kageyama says, reaching up and flicking the tassel on his cap. “Doesn’t it keep hitting you in the face?”

“Is his Majesty worried for my safety?” Kei asks, grinning. “Oh, how flattering, that a mere peon like me can command the attention of someone as high and mighty as the King himself.”

“Stop it with those stupid King jokes,” Kageyama says, lips flattened into a frown. He takes the tassel in between his fingers and uses it to hit Kei on the nose. “They’re annoying.”

“Sure, but you like them.”

“Would you two cool it with the flirting?” Yamaguchi says from behind them. “Some of us are single and don’t need to see all your gross PDA.”

“ _This_ ,” Kei says, snaking an arm around Kageyama’s shoulders and pulling him close, “would be PDA,” and plants a loud kiss on Kageyama’s cheek. He regrets it as his mind catches up, which is pretty much instantly, and hides his flush by ducking his head and fiddling with his tassel. 

Kageyama laughs and lightly pushes him away, but despite his casualness, there’s a wonderfully pink flush spreading up his neck, as well. Yamaguchi groans and turns to Hinata for solidarity to complain. 

After everything, after Kei leaves campus with no plans to return, they decide to head out for dinner. Akiteru says a high-class, fancy restaurant would be too stuffy for their tastes, so they pick a familiar, well-loved one a few streets down. 

Dinner is a raucous affair. Akiteru tries to drown him in beer, while his mother seems to think he’s still a child and lightly cuffs Akiteru on the back of the head for doing so. Kei picks a happy middle, only drinking so much that his head starts to buzz, that his thoughts roam throughout his head, loose and carefree. 

Kageyama isn’t sitting next to him, but across from him. He’s not drinking too much tonight, only taking careful sips of beer in between bites of food and mouthfuls of water, and while he doesn’t look upset, there’s clearly something nagging at him. Kei pokes his hand. 

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Kageyama says. “I just— I have a gift for you. Um. I’ll give it to you afterwards. After dinner.”

Consider Kei’s curiosity piqued. All the gifts Kageyama has bought for him— a toothbrush cover, a pair of flip-flops, a set of hydrogel face masks, ludicrously expensive athletic tape— have all been given to him almost immediately. For Kageyama to wait, specifically to wait after dinner, means— What? That it’s something special?

He nods and says: “Alright.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You’re not drunk, are you?”

“I might be,” Kei says. “A little bit, maybe.” The cool evening air and the relatively quiet street are starting to clear his head. “I’m not going to black out, though.” He blinks. “Are you going to give me your gift now?”

“I will,” Kageyama says quietly, taking his hand, lacing their fingers together. “Let’s take a walk.”

It’s frankly bizarre to see Kageyama like this. He’s quiet, more so than usual. On a normal day he’ll point out a crow walking by a storefront, or a stray cat hiding under a crate, or, if he wants to be a pain in the ass, how handsome Kei looks that day. Tonight, though, he’s got Kei’s hand in a comfortable grip, walking silently with purpose.

“Are you taking me somewhere specific?”

That question is answered about two minutes later, still nonverbally, as Kageyama comes to a complete stop. They’re at a children’s playground.

Kei, to say the least, is perplexed. “What the hell,” he says flatly. “Why are we _here_.”

“No one’s going to come to a playground this late,” Kageyama says, and Kei can’t really argue with that logic. What makes him nervous is wondering why Kageyama specifically picked a place to be entirely alone. Kageyama lets go of Kei’s hand and turns towards him, reaching into his pocket. “I have something for you.”

“I know,” Kei says, all nonchalant like his heart isn’t suddenly beating out of his chest. “I’ve been dying to see it all night.” And then, in what seems to be in slow motion, like some fucking cheesy drama or rom-com or the like, Kageyama pulls out a small black box, and Kei very nearly blacks out. “What the fuck,” he says shrilly— which, if what Kei thinks is happening really is happening, is not the proper response _at all_ . “Are you _proposing_?”

“No!” Kageyama says frantically, eyes wide. “Did— Did you want me to?”

“I don’t—” Kei inhales, exhales. “I don’t think so. I— Um. No.” He properly meets Kageyama’s eyes. “What— What is it, then?”

“Well, it’s a ring,” Kageyama says. “You were right about that.” His voice is shaking. “I thought— it would be nice to have. You know, while I’m in Italy. Like— promise rings.”

“Promise rings,” Kei breathes. He still doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or relieved that Kageyama isn’t proposing. Maybe a bit of both. There’s still too much adrenaline coursing through his veins. “Yeah. That’s— I like that.” He swallows, trying to calm himself down. “Let me see it.”

The ring is silver, with a thin band, and a line engraved parallel to the circumference on one end. It shines prettily, even in the dim lighting around them. 

Kei’s pulse is roaring through his ears. “When did you buy this?”

“Yesterday,” Kageyama says, and Kei can’t help but laugh. Kageyama didn’t wait very long at all to give him this. “You told me to surprise you with a gift—”

“Oh, that was a _joke_ —”

“—but I couldn’t figure out what to get you until yesterday, so.” Kageyama smiles. “I got you— a ring.”

Kei is thrumming with so much energy that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “What about for yourself?” he asks, wringing his fingers together. “I thought these were promise _rings_. Plural.”

“Yeah, mine looks the same,” Kageyama says, and reaches into his other pocket to pull out an identical box. He flicks it open. “See?”

“Can I put it on you?” he blurts out, and when Kageyama nods, he takes the box into his hands. He pulls out the ring carefully, desperately trying not to drop it— it’s cold, and smaller between his fingers than he thought it would be— before taking Kageyama’s hand and gently slipping past the first knuckle, then the second, before nestling it snugly against the base of his finger. 

Kageyama flexes his fingers, turning his hand this way and that. It catches the light and shines. “Wait,” he says suddenly, smile dropping. “I was supposed to put it on you first.”

“Oh, _whatever_ ,” Kei laughs. Kageyama looks a little disgruntled, so he leans forward and kisses him. His frustrated wrinkles slowly start to melt away. “Does it really matter? Now put mine on.”

Kageyama takes his hand, then, and takes the ring out, carefully sliding it down the length of Kei’s finger. The metal is cool against his skin. Kei can’t stop staring at it.

“I was thinking,” Kageyama says slowly, taking Kei’s hand and pressing their palms together, “that we could put the rings on a chain, and wear them around our necks. It’s not a good idea to wear a ring on your finger during a volleyball match—”

“I love you.”

The words catch Kei off-guard as much as they do Kageyama, and he instantly turns away, face growing unbearably warm.

“Wh—” Kageyama splutters. “Because I got you a ring?”

“ _No_ , not because you got me a ring, you fucking _idiot_.” He hides his face in his free hand, laughing because he thinks he might explode otherwise. “Aren’t you supposed to say you love me back?”

“Well, of course I love you,” Kageyama says, metaphorically walloping Kei over the head. He metaphorically passes out. Metaphorically dies and ascends to heaven while he’s at it. “But I thought you said that because I got you a ring, so—”

“This is not how it’s supposed to go!” Kei shouts. He’s laughing so hard he’s crying. Or maybe he’s crying so hard he’s laughing. What’s the difference, really, when he can barely breathe, barely think. “It’s supposed to be romantic— You’re supposed to say _I love you, too, Kei_ and then— What the hell— None of this even matters. Who cares if it’s romantic or not. _You_ , though,” he points at Kageyama threateningly, as threateningly as he can muster while he’s as emotional as someone who’s six months pregnant, “ _you_ can go fuck yourself for making me cry in public.”

“I knew you might,” Kageyama says, grinning. “Which is why I brought you to the emptiest place I could think of.”

“Oh my god, you’re the _worst_ ,” Kei snorts. He leans forward and nestles his face into the crook of Kageyama’s neck. The angle is a little awkward, but he’s all warm and elated, and he feels like he could fly. “I hate you.”

Kageyama hums, fingers skittering up Kei’s nape and nestling themselves in his hair. “I love you, too.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


A thought occurs to Kei one blinding Sunday morning in Tokyo, shopping for groceries with Kageyama. 

“Oi, your Highness,” he says, tomato in hand, “you’ve never actually told me how much Italian you’ve learned.”

Kageyama blinks. “Ah,” he says. “Well.”

And so Kei listens, with mounting horror, as Kageyama explains that he _has_ bought a Japanese-Italian dictionary, that he _has_ been watching Italian TV shows, that he _has_ been practicing writing things down in Italian, but that outside of introducing himself, signals in volleyball, and asking where the bathroom is, he doesn’t know very much Italian at all. 

“You—” Kei pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let me get this straight: you’re leaving for Italy in two months and you don’t know any Italian outside of phrases related to volleyball.”

“Yeah,” Kageyama says. “Uh. Are you actually mad?”

“I’m more baffled than anything,” Kei groans. And maybe a little worried, now that he’s thinking about it. “How are you going to communicate with anyone? Your English sucks, too.”

Kageyama puts his hands up. “I can gesture.”

“So,” Kei says. His head is starting to hurt. “You’re going to try and survive in an entirely foreign country playing a high-stakes version of charades.”

“Yeah.” Kageyama nods earnestly. “And a translator app.”

Oh, god, Kei thinks he might cry. It’s all Kageyama’s fault, for making him so soft. For being so endearing. “You and your stupid one-track mind.”

“You,” Kageyama says slyly, poking Kei’s cheek, “ _like_ me and my one-track mind.”

“No, don’t do this right now,” Kei snaps. “Don’t do this. I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“Is it working?”

“No, and it’s your fault. Now shut up.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“This hasn’t disappeared yet?”

“Of course not,” Kei says, swatting Kageyama’s hands away and pulling his collar back up. “It’s only been a week. You did a real number on me, King.”

Kageyama reaches up and pulls down Kei’s shirt collar again to look at the slowly fading bruise on his clavicle. “It’s at the marinara phase.”

“The— The _what_?”

“Look at it.” Kageyama turns Kei around so that they’re both facing the mirror, and pokes at the bruise. “It’s red and kind of chunky. Like marinara sauce, see?”

The bruise is a mottled light red against his pale skin, and well, if he squints—

“Yeah, I guess so.” He snorts, pulls away from Kageyama. “Enough about my marinara sauce hickey. You have to finish packing.”

“I’m mostly done,” Kageyama says, glancing around his room. “A bunch of my socks and underwear are still drying. I’m just waiting on those.”

So Kei retrieves the now-dry socks and underwear a little while later, dumping them on Kageyama’s bed when he returns. “You should’ve done this earlier,” he says. “This is so _tedious_.”

“Do you want to fold them for me?” Kageyama asks cheekily. 

“No,” Kei says, but because he’s so sappy he could become a maple tree, picks up a pair of socks and starts rolling them up. He’s on his eleventh pair of grey Adidas (wow, Kageyama really needs to diversify his sock collection) when he says, “I was reading this blogpost about international flights that said—”

“You’ve already told me everything there is,” Kageyama groans, flopping back onto his bed. “And I’ve been on an international flight before, I know what it’s like.” He reaches up and pokes Kei’s arm. “I know you’re just worried, but there’s no need to be. It’ll be fine. Just tiring.”

Kei huffs. What does Kageyama know? _He’s_ not the one staying in Japan while his boyfriend travels to a country he’s never been to before. “Am I not allowed to worry?”

“Of course you’re allowed to worry,” Kageyama says. “But I also need you to know that losing your shit over this isn’t going to do anything. Everything will go just as planned.”

Kei tosses bright blue briefs into Kageyama’s face. “Fine.”

“That’s not to say I won’t miss you, though.”

“Gross,” Kei says immediately, because even now, his first response towards genuine affection is to deflect. He tries not to think about the pang in his chest. Tries not to think at all. “I’ll miss you, too.”

“If you ever miss me too much,” Kageyama says softly, and reaches up to touch the silver chain around Kei’s neck before slowly moving down, tracing the length of the chain through his shirt and stopping once he feels the ring, “just— just remember that I’m right here.”

His hand is warm against Kei’s chest, even through the fabric. Warm, steady, thrumming. Kei fans his own fingers over Kageyama’s, to feel it all against his bare skin.

“Are you talking about the ring or my heart?” Kei asks. “Because if you wanted to be romantic, you probably should’ve gone with my heart, but you’ve always been—”

“I guess it’s both,” Kageyama interrupts. He presses his hand a little firmer into Kei’s chest. The ring digs into his skin. “Because the ring is right next to it— right next to your heart.”

“You’re getting your metaphors all mixed up,” Kei says lighty, but all of his emotions are crashing against each other like huge tidal waves. “Are you just going to be in the general vicinity of my chest, then?”

“Stop ruining the moment, asshole!” Kageyama yells, but the irritation only lasts for a moment before he breaks into a laugh. “You’ll be— I’ll be right here, in your— what was it? Your general chest area, and you’ll be in my general chest area, too.”

Kei clicks his tongue. “How awfully romantic.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The flight from Narita International Airport to Rome–Fiumicino International Airport has a duration of fifteen hours. In that timespan, assuming that Kageyama wastes no time at all, he can watch approximately six movies, listen to approximately three hundred songs, read the three books he’s brought with him twice each, and then, if time allows, skim through his Japanese-Italian dictionary for fun.

What Kei suspects will happen, though, is this:

The departure time in Japan is at 10:30 p.m, so after he boards and eats a stale but passable dinner, he will fall asleep, and six or seven hours, give or take, will whiz by with no problem. The second half of the flight is the real issue. Kageyama has booked an aisle seat, so he’ll have no problem getting up to go to the bathroom, but the two others in his row will have to squeeze by him every time they get up and come back. 

Then he’ll watch a movie, preferably one in Italian with Japanese subtitles, or one in Japanese with Italian subtitles, but most likely one in Japanese with Japanese subtitles, and take the headphones off about halfway through it because between the quiet roar of the airplane soaring through the clouds, the volume on his headphones turned all the way up to cut through the quiet roar— which it doesn’t, it never does— and the consistent popping of his ears due to the altitude, his head will start to hurt. So he’ll take out the pack of spearmint gum Kei bought for him, and chew, and shut his eyes and pray that his headache recedes.

Then breakfast will be served, and he’ll spit the gum out into its wrapper and eat the food. He’ll butter the bread and drink the orange juice and then tuck the blanket around his shoulders because he’s freezing. Everything will smell like a whole lot of nothing. Everything will taste like a whole lot of nothing. His head will hurt and he’ll be tired but unable to sleep because the sun will be streaming in through the window and the guy in the aisle seat wants to watch the fluffy clouds fly by.

Then he’ll remember that his cell phone exists, and that the airline provides free wifi, which he promptly forgot about after texting his family and the groupchat that he boarded the flight. He’ll pull his backpack out from underneath his seat, the one with the paper luggage tag that Kei has inevitably dog-eared to hell and back out of nerves while saying goodbye to him in Terminal 1, and take his phone out. He’ll scroll through Twitter for a bit, liking Hinata’s tweet about _Atsumu-san_ this, or _Atsumu-san_ that, or maybe _Tsumu_ if he’s feeling cheeky; retweeting Yachi’s retweet of a up-and-coming tech startup that’s debuting their new logo, designed by Yachi Hitoka herself; blocking a porn bot with a bright pink vibrator as its profile picture that’s just followed him. Then he’ll check the time in Rome (1:00 a.m.) and check the weather, while he’s at it (26°C) and text the groupchat _good morning_ and send a picture of his probably Japanese movie with probably Japanese subtitles because he can’t take a picture of the window on account that it’ll seem like he’s sneaking a picture of his seatmates.

Yamaguchi or Yachi or Hinata will text back, _that movie’s so boringgg_ or _I’ve never watched that before, is it good?_ or _I love that movie!!! (*꧆▽꧆*)_ and Kei will open a private chat and text, _I love you_ and probably have a heart attack. Kageyama will text back _I love you, too_ and Kei will definitely have another heart attack and turn his phone off.

Kageyama will finish his movie, and take another nap, and then he’ll be stepping off the plane at about 1:30 p.m. in Rome. He’ll snap a picture of the street, or the sky, or a nearby building and send it to his family, and then to the group chat, along with the message _I’m here_. 

He’ll take a deep breath, and 6027 miles away in Sendai, Kei will do the same, and both of their hands will find the ring dangling from their necks through their shirts. 

_I’m right here._

**Author's Note:**

> the title/ vague plot points are from "between the breaths" by mitski and xiu xiu!!  
> I wrote the vast majority of this in the literal week (and then some) before it was due because for some reason my brain refuses to work unless I have a pressing deadline, so apologies for any bits that seem rushed/ typos/ etc! once again my procrastination comes back to bite me in the butt.  
> huge huge huge thank you to [sass_mistress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sass_mistress/profile), [gabi](https://twitter.com/tsukikages1), and [troy](https://twitter.com/tsukishimatobio) for reading this while it was still a bunch of scenes randomly smashed together and helping me figure out pacing and other details. I literally could not have written this without them.  
> also shoutout to my friends who watched me lose my mind on priv this entire week while writing. I hope you were entertained :P  
> and thank you, dear reader, for reading through this entire fic! it was a learning process and a labor of love and the longest fic I've ever written to date, so I appreciate you being here. I hope you enjoyed!!


End file.
